


Eveningwear

by Ballades



Series: Questionable Chemistry [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Diplomacy, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gen, Halamshiral, Hunting, Includes Art, NOW WITH EVEN MORE ART?!?!, Orlais, Political Intrigue, Some angst, The Grand Game, Val Royeaux, Winter Palace, ballgowns, evening gowns, fancy dresses, maker take the intrigue, menswear, slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 41,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3546317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor returns to the Winter Palace as the guest of honor at a ball thrown jointly by Empress Celene, Duke Gaspard de Chalons, and Lady Briala.  The true purpose, however, lies in diplomatic negotiations between Orlais and the Inquisition.</p><p>tl;dr this fic is an excuse to put everyone in the outfits I wished they wore to Halamshiral.  This should be lighthearted, fun, and not very serious at all (it's probably going to get serious).</p><p>(If you have not read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3151289/chapters/6838949"><i>In Vigils</i></a>, it is strongly recommended to do so before reading this.  While it's possible to read <i>Eveningwear</i> without the context of <i>In Vigils</i>, there is a lot of meaning lost without it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Ballgown.”  Vivienne speaks, tones clipped.

“No.  Sheath.”  Aeveth narrows her eyes.

“Darling, I think I would know what is en vogue in Orlais currently.”

“And I think I would know what actually looks decent.”

“You must be  _so_  exhausted from your work, darling, you just said something foolish.  Why don’t you go rest, and I will handle all of this?”

“I thank you for your concern, Vivienne, you are ever so sweet.  Tried as I am however, the work is pressing and I must go on.”  Aeveth glares at the dressmaker, who clutches at his measuring tape.  “What do you think?  Ballgowns, or sheaths?”

The dressmaker opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, and closes it with a snap.

Aeveth spins on the ball of her foot and turns her eyes on Cullen, who is doing his best to recline in a non-reclining chair.  He has his hand over his eyes.  “Cullen?”

“No.  This is ridiculous.  Why am I even here?”

“Why indeed, darling?  You’re Fereldan.”  Vivienne sniffs.

Aeveth takes a deep breath, stops herself from mirroring Cullen’s body language.  “He needs a fitting, Vivienne.”

Cullen moves his hand from his eyes just enough to glower at her.  “I am not wearing Orlesian frippery, Aeveth.”

“It’s not  _frippery_ , Cullen.  We have to present a united front.  I am not wearing that hideous dress uniform again, and neither will you nor anyone else in the Inquisition.”

“Aeveth.”  Annoyance in his voice.

“Cullen.”  Returned, in equal measure.  “Vivienne?”

“She’s right, Commander.”

“ _Madame_.  No.”

“Inquisitor, the man is intractable.  I fail to see what you find so charming.”

“Indeed Madame de Fer, I am having similar thoughts right this moment.”  Aeveth scowls again.  “Be that as it may, he still needs a fitting, and we still need to settle on a palette and a style.”

Vivienne’s chin turns up; light glances off her cheekbones.  “Ball gown, slashed with box pleats.  I guarantee that is what Empress Celene will be wearing.”

“Isn’t that what she wore at Halamshiral last time?”

“The empress is the empress, my dear.  She wears what she wills, and we all take our cues from her.”

“Thank the Maker we are the Inquisition, and we can wear what we like.”  Aeveth turns once again to the dressmaker.  “Bold colors.  Gold, crimson, midnight blue, black, swan white, sequining and embroidery.  Rich fabrics.  Cost is not an issue.  Madame de Fer will have a ball gown.  I will wear something more form-fitting.”

A hint of a smile plays about Vivienne’s mouth.  “I look forward to a splendid Midsummer ball.”

“Are we finished?”  Cullen sits up, makes ready to leave.

“Of course not.  You still need a fitting.  Or if you’d like to skip it, I can send Thierry the measurements from last time.”  At this, Aeveth folds her arms over her chest, juts her hip out, and smirks.

Cullen mutters something under his breath.  “Andraste preserve me.  Make it quick, then.”  He stands, waits for direction from Thierry, then goes to a small dais in front of a large, paneled mirror.

Aeveth sighs.  “Tea at the fourth bell, Vivienne?”

“And not a minute later, Aeveth.”

“Most excellent.  I’ll see you then.  I’ll bring some sketches.”

“Delightful.  Will the Commander be joining us?”

Cullen’s reply is immediate.  “I regret to decline, Madame de Fer.”

“What a pity,” says Vivienne in a tone that conveys that it is not at all a pity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me love you forever!


	2. Chapter 2

They leave the dressmaker’s shop together, Vivienne having excused herself to run errands before day’s end.

Aeveth keeps a respectful distance from him as they return to their lodgings.  Thierry’s shop is located at the top level of the Summer Bazaar, but Aeveth doesn’t stop to admire the view of Mirror Lake, nor breathe in the cleaner, fresher air, free from the vague stink of the streets below.  She walks briskly, descends stairs with a speed just short of falling, exits the tower close to the Avenue of the Sun.

It’s hot.  Summer in the Frostbacks is mild, perhaps unpleasantly warm at its worst, but Val Royeaux is blisteringly hot especially at noon, when the sun bakes the cobbles to such a degree that he can feel the warmth of them through the leather soles of his boots.  Briefly, Cullen considers a switch to lighter armor.  He’s sweltering underneath his layers, and Aeveth’s pace isn’t helping.

They pass by armored guards standing watch by the gates, and Cullen sends up a quick, thankful prayer that he isn’t in their place.  Seeing the guards in the heat reminds him of his days in Kirkwall, and before he turns his thoughts firmly away, he tells himself to be grateful he isn’t in full templar plate with helmet on and visor down.

Even so, he could probably leave his fur-collared coat behind next time he and Aeveth journey out.

“Do you have any more appointments planned today?” he asks her as they pass by La Masque du Lion.  Cullen can hear a lutenist, and a woman singing.

Aeveth bursts into laughter when she recognizes the song, then schools her expression back into neutrality.  “That’s unbelievable.  That song follows us everywhere.  Sera won’t be able to show her face without everyone knowing who she is.”

“I can’t decide if she’d be pleased at her notoriety, or upset at how successful Maryden seems to have been in popularizing the work.”  Probably a little of the former, and a lot of the latter.

“The latter.  Definitely the latter.”  Cullen smiles a little at the mirroring of his thoughts.  He sees part of Aeveth’s cheek pucker inward as she bites down on it.  “I wasn’t planning on having any meals here, but perhaps I’ll make an exception just to see her face when she realizes.  About time someone pranked Sera back, I think.”

He hasn’t forgotten about his wobbly desk.  “And what about yourself?”

“Pranking me, you mean?”  Aeveth snorts.  “You should see us in camp.  What do you think we get up to, all those nights traveling to and from Skyhold?  Sera put lizards in Solas’ bedroll once, and in retaliation he spent the next three days convincing her she had magical talent.  She was ready to stab him with an arrow.”

Cullen snickers to himself.  “How is it I’m only hearing about these things now?”

“You’ve heard plenty in the tavern, haven’t you?  There was that time Dorian oiled Thom’s comb in horn balm.  Bull couldn’t stay away.  Have you ever heard Bull run through his entire repertoire of dirty pickup lines?  Thom was ready to climb up a cliff and throw himself into the desert.  Or that time - “  Aeveth takes a deep breath, exhales slowly.  “I can’t even say, I’ll die laughing, and we’re in Val Royeaux.  Ask me later, Cullen.”

He resolves to, noting that she still hasn’t said anything about people pranking her.  “All right.  Have you other appointments today?  I’d like to be warned if we need to stop anywhere else that requires I set my dignity aside.  I saw you watching Thierry in the mirror.”  The dressmaker had oohed and aahed as Cullen stood in shirtsleeves on the dais, his measuring tape and fingers lingering just a moment longer than was necessary.  Cullen had seen the faintest smile on Aeveth’s face as Thierry began prattling about the sorts of suitors he’d attract at the ball.

“Aside from tea with Vivienne and dinner with Cassandra, no.  You’re off duty the rest of the day, Cullen.”

“Thank the Maker.  Was that really necessary back there?”

Aeveth climbs a short flight of stairs; Cullen lets her go up first.  Rearguard, he tells himself.  Her voice is deadpan, floating back to him on the air.  “Would you have preferred to go with Dorian, Josephine, and Leliana?”

His reaction is immediate and visceral.  “Maker,  _no_.  I begin to understand your motivations for keeping me at your side.  My thanks.”

“And here you thought I was just keeping you around for your pretty face, Cullen.”

He crests the top of the stairs, catches up to her in three long strides.  “I had rather thought you kept me around for protection.”

“Protection, yes.  Mine and yours.  This is Orlais, after all.”  

She’s right; it’s Orlais, and the Game is ever-present.  Cullen sighs, eyeing the distance between them, carefully kept.  More than ever, he wishes he were back in Skyhold.  “Yes, and we’ve a ball to attend.  What could possibly go wrong?”

“Assassinations, scandalous revelation, duels to the death, disgrace upon the Inquisi - oh, you were joking.  Sorry, Cullen.”

Except he isn’t joking.  He can’t help but think back to the last time they were at Halamshiral, and how he had to stand in the ballroom, armorless and powerless as Aeveth somehow fought her way through the back rooms of the palace, emerging every so often to check on her advisors, smelling of ozone and soot.  That night had been balanced on a knife’s edge, and Cullen could see it tipping easily the other way.  It had only been through Aeveth’s grasp of the Game that she had prevented Celene from being stabbed in the back.  It had only been through her machinations that she herself had avoided being stabbed in the back.

Cullen knows he should trust her, but he worries nonetheless.

“I know it’s such a seldom thing, but I do have a sense of humor.”

Aeveth nods to the guards standing on either side of the door to their building.  As soon as they’re both inside, she says, “You do, and I love it dearly in all its dryness.”  She goes up yet another flight of stairs, then down a hallway to the suite that’s been set aside from her.  “Why don’t you go relax for a while, Cullen?  You cannot be comfortable in all that.”  A raised eyebrow indicates his armor, fur-collared coat and all.

He sighs and reaches for the door to his own smaller suite.  “And you?”

She waves him off.  “Reports, work, the usual.  Meet me downstairs at half past seven?”

Cullen nods.  “Until then, Inquisitor.”

“Commander.”  She turns the door handle to her rooms, steps in, and shuts it softly behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always appreciated, loves!


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian is sprawled on the bed reading when Cullen returns.

He looks up when he hears the door latch, raises an eyebrow when the commander steps in, his body language showing his obvious exhaustion.  “I didn’t expect you back here tonight,” Dorian says, watching Cullen pull his coat off and hang it on a hook.

“To be honest, I didn’t expect myself back here either.”  Cullen rolls his shoulders, stretches his neck from side to side, reaches over to his shoulder and slips his fingers underneath his pauldron to pull the tie.

“Cullen, that’s positively salacious for you.  Aren’t both Josephine and Leliana rooming with her?”  Dorian sets his glass of wine aside and pushes himself up.  The satin scarf he’s been idly toying with gets used as a bookmark.

His joke falls flat, and Cullen gives him a scathing look.  “They all have separate bedrooms, and Aeveth’s apartments are quite generous.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Dorian murmurs.  Cullen is tired and in a mood, and Dorian shouldn’t prod, but he had planned to be alone tonight, and not with a thundercloud made of gritted teeth and Fereldan drawl.  Dorian winces a little at the clanks of armor dropping to the floor.  “You do understand that the floor may chip if you keep doing that?  That we are held liable for damages, if there are any?”

The other man pauses, levels a look at him.

Dorian holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender.  “I apologize.  Just go over there, Cullen.  My company is clearly not to your liking presently.”

“I can’t.”  More pieces of armor clatter to the floor: couters, vambraces, rondels.  At least Cullen takes care to remove his breastplate and set it down gently.  “She won’t let me.”  He undoes the laces of his boots, steps out partway, and kicks them viciously aside.  The leather hits the wall loudly with a slap and a thump.

Ah, the Game.  Dorian sometimes forgets that Aeveth has a mind for it, that the same calculating intelligence she brings to her alchemy is easily turned to manipulation of other people.  Back in the Circle, she’d explained to him once, she had taken it upon herself to protect the apprentices and junior enchanters, had set herself up in a position of power through various favors, both given and curried.  She hadn’t gone into specifics, but Dorian has a fairly good idea of what some of those favors might have been.  He wonders if Cullen knows.

“You have my sympathies, Cullen, but in a few days we will quit Val Royeaux, and things will go back to normal.”

“Until we reach Halamshiral, where it will start all over again.”

Dorian’s lip curls slightly when he sees how wrinkled the linen of Cullen’s undertunic is.  The arming doublet joins the rest of the armor heap, and he strides over to the large desk in the room, upon which sits a bottle of red wine and an empty glass.  Cullen pours generously.

“By all means Cullen, drink my wine.  ‘Thank you Dorian, I really needed this.’”  Dorian does his best impression, then follows it with, “You’re quite welcome Cullen, good talk, good talk.”

Cullen’s blond hair catches the firelight as he tips his head back, draining the glass in three swallows.  “Do you ever stop?” he asks, right before he pours himself a second glass.

“Maker, no.”  He stands.  “Not until you tell me what’s bothering you.  A bit of the Game you don’t care for, perhaps?”

The second glass goes down slower, and it takes a moment before Cullen answers.  “She would like us to keep our distance, for information-gathering purposes.”

“Meaning she wants to use you as meat in front of the dogs at the ball.”  Dorian sighs.  “It sounds like Leliana put her up to it.”

“Not at all.  It was her idea, and both Leliana and Josephine thought it was a good one.”  Cullen’s tones are clipped now, and Dorian’s lips turn down in a small, empathetic frown.  He has no issue with the strategy himself, would rather he be in Cullen’s place, even, but Cullen is not used to the attention, practically detests it.

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good one too, ah - hold on, let me explain.”  Dorian raises a finger in the air to quell Cullen’s protest.  “We are ostensibly attending the ball as guests of honor, correct?  But we are really here to play politics and talk treaties with Celene, Gaspard, and Briala.”  Dorian waits for Cullen’s nod before going on.  “Aeveth has decided to dress us in finery so glorious it would outshine the sun itself.  She would like you to be a center of attention, as much as you can be.  Do you not think it’s because she wants the nobles so distracted by us that they cannot push their demands upon her?”

“In so many words, yes, but -”

“But you must set your personal feelings aside, Cullen.  You know as well as I that the Inquisition cannot sit in the mountains forever on land that is not officially ours.  We cannot be an unleashed third party with a large standing army -  _your_  army, need I remind you - between two countries that have until recent history been bitter enemies.  The Inquisitor needs these treaties to happen so that we will not be caught between a rock and a hard place should anything ever erupt between Orlais and Ferelden again.  I have met King Alistair and more importantly, Queen Anora.  I do not believe he would take his country to war, but Anora is a wholly different creature, and her patience runs thin when it comes to Orlesians.”

Cullen flaps a hand at him, exasperated.  “I know.  I know!  The treaties are vital to the continued existence of the Inquisition.  That does not stop me from misliking the strategy.  I have no head for subterfuge, Dorian.  The last ball almost killed me.”

Dorian crosses the room, places a hand on the other man’s shoulder.  “I do not think she would ask you unless she absolutely needed to.  If you haven’t noticed, she’s head over heels in love with you.  This is her job, however.  For all our sakes, Aeveth needs to be wildly successful to ensure we do not end up testing Skyhold’s defenses.”

A sigh, loud and long.  Cullen’s shoulders slump.

“Besides, you wouldn’t have to dissemble in the slightest.  Keep up your sourpuss, and the ladies and gentlemen will be flocking to you, hanging onto your every little word.”  Dorian grins.

“Maker’s breath.  Can we stop discussing this now?”

Dorian’s grin grows, spreading ear to ear.  “If you’d like.  I have sketches from Thierry for you to look at, if that would be distraction enough.  I heard you had a fitting today.  The sketches he sent over for you are  _quite_  inspired.  They are almost as lovely as the clothing he’s dreamt up for me.  Ah, what a pity, his talent is wasted in Val Royeaux.  He would make a killing in Minrathous, dressing me of course.”

Cullen’s response is desert-dry.  “Dorian, you could wear a burlap sack and start a trend.  I doubt the tailor has much to do with it.”

Dorian is aghast.  “You’re joking.”

“Not entirely.”

“Cullen, have a seat and another glass of wine.  I am going to get these sketches for you, and then I am going to explain down to every last detail how important all of this is.”  Dorian sweeps past Cullen and goes to the sideboard, where large pieces of thick vellum are stacked.

“Do I have to?”

Dorian glares, affronted.  “Sit, Commander.”

Another sigh, longer and louder than the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments fuel me!


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh,  _Maker_.”  Aeveth is short of breath; cloth bunches beneath her left hand, and her right covers her mouth.  “ _Maker.  Yes.  Maker_.”

Cullen’s eyes lock on hers, hot, for a second.

Aeveth clutches at Dorian’s sleeve.  “Dorian, look how…”

Beside her, Dorian gulps and nods.  “Yes Inquisitor, I believe I am having quite the reaction presently.”

“Andraste be praised.  He does clean up wonderfully.”  Vivienne’s head tilts as she scrutinizes Cullen.  She lifts a hand, her slender, perfectly-manicured forefinger pointing out, and draws a little circle in the air.  “Turn him, Thierry.”

Aeveth clutches Dorian even tighter as Thierry takes hold of Cullen’s shoulder to turn him.  With a scowl, Cullen slaps the tailor’s hand away, and does it himself.  Aeveth holds her breath; she can hardly believe how he looks, with those breeches skimming legs and backside so sinfully, with the fit and cut of the jacket enhancing the wideness of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, with how much the ensemble screams out power and masculinity.

Josephine lets out a little squeal.  “Splendid, Commander!”

“No one will be able to take their eyes off you, Commander,” says Leliana, and she’s got a finger tapping against her lips, an appreciative smile gracing her mouth.

“Thierry,” Aeveth says like a swear, the name coming out of her breathy and intense.  “What are we paying you?  I will double it.  Triple it.  You are a  _genius_.  You are truly inspired.  You are a gift from the Maker.”

The tailor grins at the praise.  “A thousand thanks, Inquisitor, but it is hard not to be inspired when the muse is so…”  Thierry’s eyes travel up and down Cullen’s body.  “…immediate.”

Cullen narrows his eyes at her.  “Inquisitor -”

She cuts him off with a quick wave of her hand.  “Please Cullen, don’t interrupt.  Let us enjoy ourselves for a moment.”

A moment, stretching to two, then three.  Cullen begins to look increasingly distressed.  Aeveth restrains herself from launching herself off the couch and taking him right then and there.

“My turn!” Dorian chirps, breaking the silence.  “I am positively glowing with excitement.”

“Glowing, yes, that’s one of way of putting it.”  Aeveth laughs, then covers her mouth again.  “I’m sorry.  My apologies, that was untoward.  Go, Dorian, I can’t wait to see what Thierry has put together for you.  If Cullen looks like this, then you might light us all on fire.”

Dorian grins and preens.  “Surely there is no uncertainty about that.  I  _will_ , metaphorically.”

“Then why waste time out here?  Go already!”  Aeveth gets a hand around Dorian’s back, and shoves.  His laughter floats back into the salon as he disappears behind a curtain.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen says again, and she turns her attention to him.  “If I may change back…?”

She nods at him.  “We’re done torturing you for right now, Cullen.   _Maker._   You can go.”

Thierry lays a hand on Cullen’s shoulder again.  “This way please, Commander.”

Aeveth throws herself backwards against the couch, heaving a sigh.  “Maker, _help_ ,” she says, laughing, fanning herself.  “Is anyone else feeling warm in here?  Is it just me?”

Leliana’s laughter is like the tinkling of bells.  “If anyone else is feeling as you do, Aeveth, we wouldn’t admit it, would we?  Though to be frank, I find myself wondering what my dress looks like.  It has been ages since I’ve dressed up.”

“Are we going to look too good?” muses Josephine.  “If that is what the commander looks like, then we are at risk of upstaging Celene and her court.”

“No!”  A vehement chorus, rising from three throats.

Josephine giggles.  “I suppose we can always handle the consequences later.  Leliana, Aeveth, we will have to be prepared for the mountains of letters that will surely bury us.”

“That would be the best outcome, yes.  I look forward to it.”  She hears rustling and soft footsteps; Dorian draws the curtain aside and enters.  Aeveth’s jaw drops.

“Well?  Has anyone spontaneously combusted at how dashingly handsome I look?”

“Yes Dorian, I believe I feel the flames licking at my feet right now,” Aeveth responds, giving her friend a big smile.  She stands and goes to him, lets her fingers ghost over the sumptuous velvet of his capelet, trace down his collar, open and plunging and showing Dorian’s perfectly sculpted muscles.  “We will have to place you on the other side of the ballroom.  If you and Cullen stand next to each other, there might be a stampede.”

The Tevinter mage chuckles, steps aside as Thierry emerges from the dressing area.  “What makes you think I wouldn’t like that?  Caused a stampede.  That’s a story I would love to tell.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Leliana says.

“You look magnificent, darling,” Vivienne chimes in.

“Simply stunning,” agrees Josephine.  “Thierry, truly, your work is unparalleled.”

The tailor bows, smiling.

Cullen comes out then, his coat draped over one arm.  He gives Dorian an appraising look as he walks over to the couch and takes a seat beside her, putting at least half a foot between them.  “That’s certainly going to attract attention, Dorian.”

“That’s the  _point_ , Cullen.”  Dorian’s head tilts.  “Thierry, this is wonderful, but do you think we could discuss a few more touches?”

“Of course, my Lord.  If you could come back with me, I will get my sketchbook.”

Aeveth turns to Cullen, her hand reaching out, touching his knee.  “Will you be all right?”

He glances at her and folds his arms across his chest.  “I will endure.”

“Come now, Commander, you should try to find a little joy in what we’re doing,” says Leliana from across the room.  “Imagine all the fun I’ll have in reading letters to you from your suitors.  Besides which, we haven’t tried on our dresses yet.  Perhaps some payback is coming, hmm?”  A hint of a smile, directed at Aeveth.

“I’m not interested in suitors, thank you.”

“It’s still fun to read the letters, though,” Aeveth says, teasing, squeezing his knee in what she hopes is a friendly way.  “Imagine all the things they’d be willing to offer for a dowry.  Cullen, you could fill all our requisitions just with a lingering stare or two.  Wouldn’t it be nice to stop seeing the requisition officer for a couple of weeks?”  She mimics the officer.  “Something for you, ser!”

Aeveth sees Cullen’s eyes flick over to her, but to her surprise, he just frowns.  She withdraws her hand, confused.  “Cullen?” she says slowly.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair.  “Let’s just get this over with quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments:me  
> mana:heaven  
> coffee:writing


	5. Chapter 5

Aeveth is leaning over the dining room table, lips pursed in thought.

Cullen murmurs his thanks to Leliana as he enters their suite.  Aeveth doesn’t look up, continues her perusal of the giant map laid out on the makeshift war table.  She cocks her head to one side, mutters something to herself, braces a hand on the surface and reaches out, tracing a finger down the spine of mountains bisecting Thedas.

The dining room itself is in disarray, with large, plush chairs pushed haphazardly away from the table, lining the walls crookedly.  Josephine is sitting delicately in one of them, a small plate in her hands, munching on a cluster of grapes and a few slices of cheese.  A platter sits upon a sideboard, partially bare, but Cullen only counts one other dirty plate.

He knows with certainty that Aeveth has not eaten.

“Commander,” she says to him as he walks up to the table, still not looking at him.  “If you’re hungry, there is some refreshment on the sideboard.  Wine is in the kitchen.”

“I’ll eat if you do,” he replies to her, laying a hand on her forearm.  She looks up at him then, flashes the briefest of smiles.

“I’m not that hungry.”  She picks up a slender piece of charcoal, marks a place on the map.  Cullen notes other such marks scattered all over, realizes that Aeveth is trying to remember all of the Inquisition’s holdings.

He takes the charcoal from her, the dark gray stuff of it smudging on his fingertips.  “Let me,” he says gently, and begins drawing swiftly, surely.  His recollection of troop placement and gained territory is superior to hers, and in his mind’s eye he can see the map in Skyhold with the markers on it, areas circled in red ink with numbers and calculations.

“I’ll never know how you do that.”  Aeveth moves aside a step to let him work, watches him with a finger pressed to her lips.

“It is,” Cullen says distractedly, scrawling a note across the Arbor Wilds, “part of the reason why I hold this position, I should hope.”

She sighs, and the finger tapping on her lips uncurls, pushes against her eyebrow hard enough to bend it all the way back, hyperextending.  “Maker, Cullen.  It’s only now that I realize just how many places we control.  What a damned nightmare this is.  I had a hard enough time negotiating for Caer Bronach with Alistair, how are we going to get through Duke Gaspard and Empress Celene?.”

Cullen tries to ignore Aeveth’s casual use of the king’s name.

“To be fair, most of that was Anora’s doing.”  Leliana emerges from the kitchen holding two wineglasses, and hands one over to Aeveth with a pointed look.  

Aeveth accepts it with another sigh, throws the contents down her throat in two gulps, and gives it back.  “True enough.  You were right about Alistair being a dear, Leliana, but Anora… I’m glad you were there, you and Josephine.”

Cullen finishes writing, puts the charcoal down, and straightens from his hunch over the table.  “What guarantees do we have so far, Josephine?”

The ambassador unfurls herself from her sitting position and sets her plate down.  “So far, I have drawn up a nonaggression pact, an open borders agreement lasting through this year and the next, and a treaty of safe passage through major roads and bridges, including the Skyhold pass and any path leading to our camps and holdings.”

“If you could please, Josephine,” Aeveth says, “add a non-encroachment clause onto the nonaggression pact.  And in a separate document, a potential drawdown declaration for our holdings in the Exalted Marches and the Emerald Graves.  That should win Briala over, at least a little bit.”  Aeveth bends over to inspect the map again.  “We might need to send an updated nonaggression to Alistair if the empress and the duke agree to our terms.”

Josephine nods, then picks up her quill and board, sits back down, and begins writing furiously.

“Leliana,” Aeveth says next, “a few things.  Please send these messages to Skyhold.  I’d like Iron Bull, Varric, and Sera to join us at Halamshiral, have Thierry set up as a retainer.  He may bring as many supplies as can fit in a carriage, and two assistants.  Write to Michel as well; I will need both you and him to help formulate our final strategy.”

“I’ll get started right away.”  Leliana breaks off a cluster of grapes before she turns for the door.

Aeveth puts her hands on her hips, blows air.  “I suppose that’s it for now.  Dismissed.”

Cullen frowns.  “And I?  Have I a task?”

“Not at present,” Aeveth replies.

“Might you share a meal with me, then?”

He watches her lips tighten into a line, observes her weighing her options.  In Skyhold she would have said yes immediately.

“There is no more work to be done right now,” says Leliana suddenly, pausing at the door.  “Why don’t you rest and eat?”

A rustle of satin as Josephine rises.  “I second the suggestion.  There’s plenty left to eat, and the wine is simply lovely.”

“But -” Aeveth begins to protest.

“Rest, Inquisitor,” Leliana orders firmly.  “We will see our task through, one step at a time.”  She opens the door and allows Josephine to exist first before going through, shutting it behind her.

The two of them stand, silent, for a long minute.

He goes over to her, puts his arms around her.  At first Aeveth is stiff, but Cullen holds on, and after a moment she exhales, body softening, melting into him.  He rests his chin on the crown of her head, and they say nothing for a while.

“Thank you,” she whispers to him.  “I needed this.”

He kisses her on her hair, pulls away just enough so she can see his smile.  “I know,” he tells her.  “Is it alright if you take off the Inquisitor mask now?  Just until Leliana and Josephine return.”

“Yes,” she says.  “Yes, I think I can.”

He brushes his thumb across her cheek then, draws the backs of his fingers down the soft skin of her face.  “Good,” Cullen says, bending his head down.  “Good.”

He kisses her gently, sweetly, presses his mouth against the delicate silk of her lips.  She yields to him, opening, and as they kiss Cullen cups her face with his hands, strokes his thumbs across her cheekbones and eyelids, smooths his fingertips over her jaw.  Every movement, he thinks, is the removal of a layer; every touch helps peel away the necessary facade she wears until it is gone, until it is just him and her, just Cullen and Aeveth, sharing a long kiss in a beam of afternoon summer sun.

Later on Cullen recalls the food in the dining room and the wine in the kitchen, but Aeveth is curled against him, peacefully asleep, and he hasn’t the heart to wake her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [tigernaute](http://tigernaute.tumblr.com/).

_Hunting is such a barbaric practice_ , Dorian thinks as he rides through the woods outside Halamshiral, trailing two lengths behind Aeveth, Celene, and Gaspard.   _Though perhaps I’m not one to talk, seeing as slavery still exists both here and in Tevinter.  Well, it is barbaric anyhow, the chasing down of helpless animals for human caprice.  Though I do like the fur.  At times._

His mask itches, and Dorian resists the urge to stick his finger beneath the edge and scratch.  The half-mask is a work of art, beaten copper outlined in silver, with gold surrounding the eyes and a silver viper winding over the top of the right side, where a chevalier feather would be set, were he one.  The viper’s mouth is open, hissing, the inside made of bloodstone streaked in black, to match the hard onyx of the snake’s eyes.

Beside him Cullen rides, stoic, the dark honey of his irises picking up the shifting light as they pass beneath the trees.  It’s almost a shock to see him out of his armor; Cullen is dressed today in reinforced riding leathers, black, with the insignia of the Inquisition stitched on his chest in silver thread.  A slender sword is belted around his hips, and his mask is silver inlaid with jet, simple yet elegant, a statement, taken all together.  Today, Cullen is both commander and champion, and Aeveth has made sure he looks the part, commissioning outfit after outfit, working Thierry to the bone.

Aeveth is leftmost, riding ahead, posting easily as her horse trots along the trail.  She is straight-backed grace in the saddle, the midnight blue of her divided skirts spread perfectly behind her, the silvered topstitching catching the light.  Her hair is caught up neatly in a low chignon, above which sits the ribbon of her mask.  Dorian can hear the gravelly tones of Duke Gaspard as he makes conversation; Aeveth’s head turns slightly to the right, and the lyrium crystals set around the eyes of her mask glitter blue, a complementary tone to her dress.

“You have some skill ahorse,” Gaspard is saying.  “You must have learned quickly, after leaving the Circle.”

“You are too kind, your Highness,” Aeveth says evenly.  “I learned from the best, as a child.  My mother used to say I knew how to ride before I could walk.”

Dorian sees the corner of Gaspard’s mouth twitch just slightly as his insult falls flat.  To Gaspard’s right, Empress Celene inclines her head.  “I did not realize the Trevelyans of Ostwick raised their children such.”

A bold lie, that, but it’s an opportunity for Aeveth to completely dismantle Gaspard’s attempt at humiliating her, and she takes it.  “Oh, the entire family is _obsessed_  with the racing and the breeding of horses, your Radiance,” she says lightly, her voice never wavering as she manages the gait of her mount, up down, up down.  “The stables have ever been full of the finest hotbloods.  If your Eminence would like, I could have a pair sent over.  Despite their spirit, we have always bred for temperament and soundness, and you will find them quite an asset to your program.”

“We would be pleased,” Celene responds.  “We are ever grateful for good manners in addition to fine breeding.”

Dorian doesn’t miss the little smile that widens Aeveth’s lips, the action carefully drawn out so Gaspard is sure to notice.  He listens idly to the conversation as it continues, Gaspard asking pointed questions about horseflesh, Aeveth answering them deftly, easily.  She retorts with her own queries, and soon the two of them are debating color inheritance theories for roan coats among hotbloods.

They slow to a walk as the dogs lose the scent.  Voices dim to a distant murmur as Dorian says to Cullen,  _sotto voce_  of course, “Always a wonder, our Inquisitor.”

“Yes,” Cullen says quietly.  “I learn more and more about her as the days pass.”

A twinge of sympathy.  Cullen is uncomfortable with, suspicious even, of the Game, and despite the necessity of his presence both at the ball and in the negotiating room, Dorian understands that the other man chafes at his impotence.  The last time the Inquisition went on a diplomatic trip Cullen had been left behind to steward Skyhold, which he had done more than adequately; this time, Rylen is in charge, leaving Cullen in Orlais, probably feeling like a fish out of water.  Dorian would offer to teach the poor man, but Cullen is just so - so _Fereldan_ , so honest and unable to keep his emotions from reaching his face, even with the aid of the mask.  Even if he wore a full mask his body language would give him away in a heartbeat.

“If there’s one thing we’ve learned about her,” Dorian says, hoping his words will be received well, “it’s that she is usually successful at whatever task she sets herself to.”   _Indeed_ , he thinks,  _whether it is defeating Darkspawn magisters, or creating a poison so virulent even Sera balks at using it, she tends to get what she wants._

“Let us hope,” says Cullen, and then the dogs take up the scent, baying, and race off through the woods.

Horns sound out from the hunting party ahead; horses spring forward at the touch of spurs; suddenly everything is moving swiftly, and Dorian leans forward in his saddle, watching the dogs running in front, hearing the thunder of hooves and the snorts of the horses.  Aeveth canters alongside Gaspard, and as they go Dorian notices Gaspard nudging his mount leftward, forcing Aeveth to cut wide around trees or leap over logs.  Dorian has seen her navigate her fair share of treacherous territory, especially when riding her hart, and she takes the obstacles well in stride, her body held close to her horse’s neck, lips moving with quiet words of encouragement for an ear, swiveled back.

Cullen can’t have missed Gaspard’s behavior, and Dorian sneaks a glance over at the other man as they hit a particularly clear stretch.  Cullen’s jaw is clenched, and underneath the supple black leather of his gloves, Dorian is sure that his knuckles are white upon the reins.  There is nothing that can be done about it, Dorian knows, and Aeveth has things well in hand anyway.

They come upon the cornered fox surrounded by a pack of dogs, and Aeveth dismounts dramatically as her horse slows, her skirts flaring around her as she hits the ground with knees bent, sprinting forward, flinging out a hand, casting a barrier around the wild animal.  Dorian is admiring her penchant for theatrics - Aeveth maintains she doesn’t like them, and it’s the purest bullshit Dorian has ever heard - just as one of the hunters in the party looses an arrow.  It hits the barrier and is incinerated instantly in a burst of bright blue flame, the feathers on the shaft sparking white before turning into ash.  The dogs yelp and back away.

Gaspard’s boots thump onto the leaf-covered forest floor, and his voice is triumphant as he advances upon Aeveth, his walk sleek and stalking like a mountain cat, like the chevalier he is.  Dorian hears Gaspard’s gravelly voice again as it’s raised.  “Is this your first hunt, your Worship?  We are meant to kill the beast, not take it for a pet.”  Around them, the hunting party of assorted lesser nobles titter nervously.

Aeveth’s eyes are frosty; she lifts her chin to confront the taller man, but maintains her barrier, her hand outstretched still.  “Far from it, my dear Grand Duke de Chalons, and if you think to call this meager thing a beast, then it is I who must question your experience in the hunt.”

A low murmur ripples through the crowd as Gaspard considers his response.  Dorian sees Cullen dismount out of the corner of his eye.  The commander takes long strides to the fore of the crowd now surrounding the two, makes himself visible next to Celene.  The empress is watching avidly, her hands carefully hidden within the folds of her skirts.

“Meager, yes.  Perhaps it would make a short stole to loop around your Worship’s neck, should you have the heart to kill it.”  Dorian frowns at the escalation in language.  From Leliana’s reports, Dorian is sure Gaspard is still plotting to take the crown for himself, but threatening Aeveth in front of so many witnesses…

He looks to Cullen, whose hand is upon the pommel of his sword.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Dorian swears.

“On the contrary your Highness, my heart is  _merciful_  enough to let the small thing go.  It has done nothing but attract our ire, yet our sport has been had, and we no longer have need of it, even if it continues to growl and snap at us.”  Aeveth drops her hand and the barrier disappears.  The fox scampers away into the forest.

 _Oh, well played my dear girl, well played_.  Every eye is on Aeveth now, all attention given to the way she is standing, proud, her lineage clearly apparent in all the statuesque lines of her pose.  A light smatter of applause begins; tension begins to dissipate from the crowd.

Dorian imagines Gaspard seething.  It’s  _delightful_.

“Shall we retire to the Winter Palace?”  Celene steps forward.  “We are in agreement that the sport has been had.”

And there it is, tacit approval of what Aeveth has done, an acknowledgement that the Inquisition’s demands will be met with consideration and the understanding that Aeveth will not seek to overstep herself.

Dorian gestures with his right hand, palm up, sweeping it away from his body.  “A race!” he calls gaily, loudly, trying his best to startle Gaspard.  “A race back to the Winter Palace!  Let our own selves be the sport for once.”

As one the crowd’s eyes land on him.  Dorian smiles prettily and preens, relishing the attention, turning his head so that his left side is presented.  Interrupting nobility of such high rank normally would have left him in disgrace, but he’s Tevinter after all, and disgrace is something to which he’s grown accustomed.

Unbidden, he thinks of Iron Bull, and the satin scarf that lies in his room, draped over his pillow.

“Your challenge is accepted, master Pavus!” Aeveth responds, pitching her voice so that it rings through the forest.  “Bear witness, friends, as the ancient war with Tevinter is renewed!  To arms, to arms!  Who shall ride for Orlais?”

The crowd cheers and laughs as Aeveth re-mounts and waits for Gaspard and Celene to do the same.  Dorian turns his face away to hide his smile as Aeveth brings her horse up alongside his.  Celene’s places herself at Aeveth’s other side; Gaspard is last, his scowl plain.

Aeveth turns to Celene.  “Your Radiance?”  She bows her head.

A smile from Celene.  “Riders up!” she proclaims, and Dorian hears the chorus of leather creaks as the hunting party swings into saddles.

“For Orlais!” cries Celene.  “Charge!”

Dorian puts his spurs to his horse’s flank, and flies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, things are starting to get serious!


	7. Chapter 7

“Inquisitor, Messere Thierry is waiting without.  He would like a word.”

“Thank you, Josephine.  Please see him into the salon and offer him some refreshment.  I’ll be out shortly.”  

The door shuts.  Aeveth meets Leliana’s eyes in the mirror, waits as deft fingers finish plaiting strands of her hair.  The last pin slides into place after a moment.  Aeveth turns her head from side to side, observing.  “You are a wizard, Leliana.” 

Aeveth’s updo is a complicated one, made more difficult by the length of her hair, but Leliana has years of experience and training.  She laughs lightly.  “Not at all, Aeveth.  It is but a simple Orlesian braid.”

Simple to Leliana perhaps, but complex to Aeveth, whose talents extend as far as braiding a crown of flowers into her hair and not this Orlesian fanciness.  Her hair is plaited so that it looks as if it has an Orlesian braid looping behind in a way that’s reminiscent of Cassandra’s hairstyle, just more romantic and whimsical and fresh.

“Be that as it may, Leliana, this is far beyond my own capabilities.  And there’s even room for me to tie my mask.  You have my thanks.”  Aeveth rises from her chair in front of the vanity and checks the ties of her dressing gown.  She finds them too loose and re-ties them, the edges of the gown gapping for just a second, revealing smooth skin underneath, and not much else.

Leliana smiles briefly.  “Dorian told me of your triumph in the hunt today.  Wonderfully played, Inquisitor.”

“It was close there, for a minute,” Aeveth admits, thinking back to the fraught, hanging silence after Gaspard’s veiled threat, remembering how Cullen’s hand gripped the pommel of his sword.  “But yes, in the end, it all went very well.  I look forward to speaking with Celene tonight, should we be able to catch a moment.”

Leliana nods, then produces a folded piece of paper from her sleeve.  “Ser Michel sent us a response while you were out.  I find it highly informative regarding Gaspard’s motivations.”

Aeveth makes a noise of assent, takes the letter from Leliana, unfolds it, starts reading.  Ser Michel’s writing is regimented yet flowing, reminiscent of the warrior he is, grace and deadliness contained in attacks that spill across the page in long t slashes and heavy, sharp descenders.  She purses her mouth as she reads, and nods at his words.  She will need to revise her opinion of Gaspard, and her strategy as well.

“Well.  Thank you again, Leliana.  I hope this proves useful at dinner tonight.”  Aeveth gives the letter back, watches as it disappears up a sleeve.  “In the meanwhile, time to go see what Thierry needs.”

Aeveth exits the antechamber and enters the salon, where Dorian and Cullen are lounging, each on separate couches.  Dorian’s nose is buried in a book, naturally.  Aeveth suspects -  _knows_  - that he had snuck out to the university during their stay in Val Royeaux.  Cullen, on the other hand, is sprawled in the center of the couch facing her, arms flung wide across the pillows of the back, body sunk into the cushions.  His head is tipped backwards and the laces of his shirt are undone, laying over his chest.  He sits up as she closes the door behind her, the latch clicking sharply.

“Your Worship!” Thierry exclaims.  The tailor is standing in the middle of the room, garments folded neatly over his arm.  “My deepest apologies, your Worship, I did not mean to disturb -”

She waves him off.  “Please, Thierry, I am the one who needs to be apologizing to you.  I have you working around the clock.”  Aeveth walks over, smiling warmly, and embraces him briefly.

The slender, dark-haired man freezes.  “Your Worship!” he blurts, strangled.

“Inquisitor.”  Cullen clears his throat.

“Yes, Commander?”

“You’re not…decent at the present moment.”

A jolt as she realizes she’s still in her robe.  “Maferath’s wrinkly ballsack!  Thierry,  _my_  deepest apologies.  I’m so sorry.”  Instinctively, Aeveth grabs the edges of her robe and pulls them closed all the way up to her neck.

“Maferath’s…?”  Thierry gives her an incredulous look.

It’s Aeveth’s turn to clear her throat, her cheeks warming.  “A phrase I picked up from a friend,” she explains hurriedly.  “You wanted to see me for something?  What’s that there?”

The tailor’s face brightens.  “Vestments for master Pavus and the commander, for the dinner tonight.”

Aeveth makes an excited noise.  “Dorian, look!”

“Pardon me, pardon me.”  Dorian practically sprints over to Thierry.  “Which one is mine?”

Thierry extends the arm with the clothing, grasps the topmost garment with his free hand.  It whispers sensuously against itself as Thierry pulls it off and holds it up.  It’s a jacket, waist-length, cut sharply, with just a bit of flare where it would hit the hips.  Black silk brocade, subtle black on black, shimmers in the light; golden vines, embroidered, twine up the sleeves and over the shoulders and chest.  

Dorian puts his hands to his mouth and bites his fingers.  With a sly smile, Thierry gives the garment a shake.  It glitters then, flashing, and Aeveth realizes that there are gold beads hidden among the intricate design.

“ _Maker_ ,” Dorian says, hushed.

“I’m not finished, master Pavus.”  Thierry lays the coat carefully over the back of one of the chairs in the salon, pulls the next garment off his arm.  “These breeches complete the look.”

Dorian eyes them critically.  “Tight?”

“The tightest, master Pavus.”

Aeveth watches Dorian puff up before her eyes.  “Thierry,” he says, “I never thought I would thank a man for forcing me to sew myself into my breeches, but… thank you.”

Cullen snorts a laugh from beyond.  Dorian sniffs as he picks up his clothes, holding them like the treasures they are.  “You’re next,” he tells Cullen pointedly.  “And I hope master Thierry has put you in breeches so tight you’ll end up a soprano.”

It’s Aeveth’s turn to laugh loudly, releasing her robe to put her hand to her face.  Instantly, Thierry about-faces, whipping around.  She takes a deep breath, presses her palm against her sternum.  “Thierry,” Aeveth says, “turn around.  There is no need to feel embarrassed.  The Game is not played here, though if you would like to spread rumors of how divinely perfect the Inquisitor is in any state of dress, please do feel free.”

Cullen groans this time, and hides his face in his hand.

“And that,” Aeveth says acidly, indicating Cullen, “is why the Game is not played in my chambers.  Come now, please show us what you’ve cooked up for Cullen.  I find myself deathly curious.”

“Yes, I second the motion heartily,” Dorian chimes in.

Thierry pulls the next garment off his arm, shakes it out with a snap, and holds it up for inspection.  It is green, the deep green of winter pines, a dark, earthy green that takes in light, swallows it.  “A silk and wool blend,” announces the tailor, “with golden rope in rows across the front, to emulate the military uniform you wore last time you were at Halamshiral.”  Aeveth nods, noting the buttonless closure of the front, the high neck of the collar, the piping of rank embroidered in the same gold over the cuffs of each sleeve.  The coat is longer than Dorian’s, and by Aeveth’s figuring will hit mid-thigh on Cullen.

“Surely Cullen, even you cannot find fault with the coat.”  Dorian leans close, takes the material of one sleeve in his fingers, rubs it, sighs.  “Simply sumptuous.  Decadent, even.  You are being spoiled, Commander.”

“Wear them with these,” Thierry says then, indicating the last piece of clothing on his arm.  Aeveth quickly schools her face into neutrality upon seeing the fawn-colored leather breeches, looking supple as sin.  She can’t help but imagine Cullen wearing them, shirtless, but with boots, turned down neatly at the knee.  She can’t help but imagine Cullen peeling himself out of them with a little smile as her fingers slide over his shoulders, his arms, the broad planes of his chest, the ripples of his stomach.

Aeveth breathes evenly, hoping she hasn’t just given herself away to the tailor.  Despite what she has said about the Game, the illusion of Cullen’s bachelorhood has to be maintained, however difficult a task it is at the current time.

She waits for Cullen to collect his clothing before taking Thierry’s hands into hers.  They are rough and dry, beginning to crack.  “Thierry!” Aeveth says, startled.  “Your poor hands!”

“It is nothing,” the tailor says, abashed.  “Nothing out of the ordinary, for work such as mine.”

“You need more assistants,” Aeveth says firmly.  “The Inquistion’s coffers are open to you.  Take however much you need.”

“No, your Worship, I could not!” Thierry protests.  “I will just get some of the elves.”

Aeveth’s lips purse.  “Thierry,” she says evenly, “I understand how Orlesians feel regarding the worth of elves.  However, if you are going to have them as assistants on behalf of the Inquisition, then I expect you to pay them as you would an assistant.”  She squeezes his hands when he starts to say something.  “Am I understood, Thierry?  Treat them as you would your human assistants.  Pay them equally.  I suspect you’ll find their work improves as a result.”

The tailor holds still.

“Thierry?”  A note of warning, voiced.

Finally, he concedes.  “Yes, your Worship.”

“Excellent.  Now, will you allow me to heal your hands?”  Aeveth turns them palm up, runs her thumbs over the dry, flaky skin and scab lines.  “Healing magic is not my specialty, but I know enough to fix your problem.”

Cullen looks wry as he scrubs a hand through his hair, rubs the back of his neck.  “You should accept,” he says, “or she will badger you endlessly.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting dressed, Commander?” she asks curtly.

Cullen lifts both eyebrows at her.  “Shouldn’t  _you_  be getting dressed, Inquisitor?” 

Their eyes meet, and Aeveth clamps her lips together before breaking the contact, with effort.

“Well,” declares Dorian, “ _I_  shall get dressed.  Good evening, master Thierry.  And you should let the Inquisitor heal you.  Cullen isn’t wrong about the badgering.”

“Dorian!” Aeveth exclaims, mock-affronted, as he saunters casually away.

Thierry sighs then, nods his agreement, and in just a few seconds, the tailor’s hands are whole and undamaged.

She shows Thierry out, then returns to Cullen, who is holding the jacket, running fingertips over it.  Aeveth picks up the breeches, and they are every bit as soft as she expects them to be.  She shivers, coming to the realization that it’s just her and Cullen in the salon, together.

Cullen takes the breeches from her hands, his fingers brushing against hers.  Aeveth inhales deeply, drawing out the action.  Focus, she needs to focus, and not think about helping Cullen get dressed, nor how late they would be to dinner if she gave in to her desires.  She has many other things to consider, like the information given to her regarding Gaspard’s sense of honor and ability to play the Game.  She needs to remain calm and consult with both Josephine and Leliana on how best to neutralize the threat he poses to Celene.

“Aeveth.”  Cullen calls her name softly.  He moves off a pace, keeping them apart.  “Go get dressed.”

She nods, turning towards her door.


	8. Chapter 8

The breeches are, Maker be praised, not too tight.

Despite his misgivings over the situation, Cullen has to admit that Thierry has a singular talent.  The cut of the leather is exquisite, and the breeches fit him perfectly, skimming over his skin, hinting at the build of his body beneath.  They are also remarkably comfortable, flexible and a bit elastic, allowing easy movement, which he tests with a few exercises.

Cullen finds the boots that Josephine left him after declaring his old ones unfit, slides his feet in, does up the laces in the back.  Though they’re new the dark brown leather is already broken in, and there is no hint of resistance as he folds the top flaps over, turning them down over themselves.  He wiggles his toes experimentally to feel how hard the upper is.  It isn’t, at all.

He goes over to the mirror to finish dressing, asking himself how much all of the clothing costs, how much gold Aeveth is willing to dump into this venture to ensure their safety.  All of it, probably; he can’t blame her either if the choice is to face an uncertain future with two armies on their doorstep, or empty coffers and the reassurance of continuing.

There is a fresh linen undershirt hanging in the wardrobe, so Cullen pulls it off the hanger, changes into it, tucks it into his breeches.  It is, unsurprisingly, perfectly tailored, barely even bunching in the waist of his pants as he straightens the hem out.  Thierry’s touch is in everything; Cullen finds his initials monogrammed discreetly by the bottom of the shirt, right next to the side seam.

He lays the green coat out onto the bed once he’s done buttoning up the low collar of the shirt. The jacket is held closed with what seems like hundreds of hooks, and Cullen sighs out his impatience as he begins undoing them one tiny metal fastening at a time.  It takes only moments once he figures out the trick to unhooking multiples; once it’s open, he picks it up in both hands with it facing out, and swings it around, shrugging into it, feeling its weight settle onto his shoulders.

He is a little surprised when he glances into the mirror, marvels at how different he looks, wonders for a second who that unfamiliar man is.  He is unused to finery after a life spent in the austerity of the Order, and he knows it will take time for him to adjust to his role here in Halamshiral.

Cullen sighs, reaches for the bottommost hook, finds the eye, marries the two without much difficulty, moves to the next.

Cullen hears a light tap on the door when he reaches the hooks right by his collarbone.  “Come in,” he calls out, fingers continuing to work.

The door opens, revealing Aeveth, already gowned and masked.  Cullen’s fingers slow and then stop as he sees her reflection in the mirror; he swallows, unable to take his eyes off her.  Her dress is a beige color - some color, he has no idea what it’s called, but it’s almost the same color as her skin with its dusky golden undertones - and is high-collared and sleeveless.  The top part is made of a lace or chiffon or something that gives the illusion of nudity.  Crystal beads in the shape of flowers sparkle from shoulder to shoulder; a thin gold ribbon encircles her waist, and her skirts, diaphanous and gauzy, have short vines of dark green ivy embroidered throughout, trailing down from around back, snaking up from her hemline.  Her half-mask is gold tonight, calling to mind the gold in Dorian’s coat and the golden trim across the front of his coat.  Gold and unadorned, save for the sparkling crystals lining the edge, and the large, flawless teardrop embedded in the center of her forehead.

“I’ve brought your mask and pin,” she says to him, and her voice is of the Inquisitor’s, cool and chesty, professional.

Cullen forces his fingers to work again, finishes hooking his coat closed.  “Thank - thank you,” he says, clearing his throat, which is suddenly dry.  Maker, she’s _beautiful_ , even with that half-mask on.  Cullen doesn’t often stop and think about how Aeveth looks, really, which is silly; he finds her attractive, has always found her attractive and compelling, has reacted to her physically since their first meeting.  In the early days of their acquaintance Cullen had spent many an instance telling himself to see beyond the pretty, even features of her face and the touchable hourglass build of her body, to look past and find the qualities in her that made her a competent, compelling leader.  He had been successful, so successful that even after they’d struck up a romantic relationship, he thought of her more in terms of trait and personality rather than what was just present on the outside.

But this is Orlais, and for the first time Aeveth is truly in her element as both the leader of the Inquisition and the noble that she is.  At home in Skyhold she is only Aeveth, no surname.  She eschews luxury, doesn’t wear jewelry or indulge herself with rich foods or accept extra favors.  Here she is wholly different, transformed by the clothing and the masks and the makeup and the Game into a high, puissant being, into the impossibly legendary Herald of Andraste, the Lady Trevelyan, the Inquisitor, vanquisher of Corypheus, restorer of peace.

And Maker, she’s  _beautiful_.

Aeveth steps into the room, the fabric of her dress rustling against the floor.  She stretches out a hand.  “Here, Cullen, the pin goes on your collar.”  She sets his mask down on the bed, and Cullen sees ivory enamel and velvet in a quilted pattern, starting as pine green at the bottom, shading through to medium and light green and finally, to cream on the forehead.  The entire mask is outlined in a thin strip of beaten gold.

She approaches and he turns to face her.  Slender fingers reach up, ghost over the skin of his throat, take light hold of his collar.  Cullen holds his breath as Aeveth pins the silver insignia of the Inquisition on, keeps his hands firmly at his side so that his fingers can’t slide over the bared flesh of her arms, so that his palms can’t follow the contour of her skin all the way back over her shoulders, so that he can’t pull her into his embrace and kiss her senseless.

“There,” she says, stepping backwards carefully so that she doesn’t tread upon her skirts.  “And now your mask.”

“I can do that,” Cullen says quickly.  Tactically speaking, it would be a very bad idea to let her get that close again.

“All right,” she says, holding her skirts, lifting the hem of her dress slightly, turning around to leave his room.

Cullen is extraordinarily grateful that she is not facing him at that precise moment, thanks the Maker and His bride that she is already walking away, out of his reach.  For the dress is backless and plunging, revealing the entirety of her flawless skin, showing the jut of her shoulderblades, the shadowy, indented line of her spine which he knows is eminently traceable beneath his forefinger.  Cullen breathes out slowly.  Calm.  Professional.  If she can do it, so can he.

He follows Aeveth out, snagging a leather belt and dagger from the side table on the way.  Cullen shuts the door behind him, gets the length of the belt around him, fastens it, half-knots the remainder.  The dagger he hangs at his hip; he loosens it, pulls it out a couple of inches, runs his thumb along the edge to check it.  Satisfied, he slides it back into the sheath, and slips the peace loop back over the quillions.

“Commander, you look marvelous,” says Josephine, and he looks up, gives the ambassador a smile.  Both she and Leliana are in the foyer alongside Dorian, who even standing looks as if he is strutting before an audience of admirers.  Josephine and Leliana are also in green, their dresses a complement to his coat; Josephine’s dress is more traditionally Orlesian, with an off-shoulder neckline, fuller skirts, and a tightly-laced bodice.  Gold scrollwork marches over her torso and down into the satin of the skirts; gold satin gloves cover her from fingertip to elbow.

Leliana in contrast is sleekness and grace, the silhouette of her dress slender, the material draping itself over her body.  She is stunning in it, the colors of the dress enhancing the fire of her hair.  Thierry has somehow managed to create an ombre effect with the cloth, starting with cream at the neckline and lower hem, darkening to the same deep green of his coat in the middle.  He sees a small bird, a nightingale, stitched over her shoulder.

Leliana’s lips turn up into a smile as she catches him looking.  “The Inquisition can turn itself out quite nicely, can’t it, Commander?”

“Yes, so long as I do not use the wrong fork at the dinner service,” Cullen returns, smiling as Aeveth laughs softly.

“You’ll be seated next to Dorian,” Aeveth says, “and he will be happy to help you discreetly as we navigate the treacherous waters of a state dinner.”

Josephine sighs.  “Oh, Aeveth, I doubt anyone will notice with how handsome the commander looks.  I can only begin to imagine what might be said behind napkins and hands tonight.”

A grin.  “Excellent.  The rumors will fly, then.”

Cullen cocks his head slightly to the side.  “What rumors?”

“The rumors we’ve started, of course,” Leliana says lightly.  “That you and the Inquisitor may or may not be involved, that you and the Inquisitor can’t stand each other, that you have been hurt by a lady love in the past and have never recovered…they go on.”

“Don’t forget the rumor that he’s hopelessly in love with a mystery woman, and wants to leave the Inquisition for her,” Dorian adds.

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen says explosively.  “How many rumors are there?!”

“Only a few,” Aeveth says reassuringly.  “These are just little ones, to seed the soil, as it were.  Sera has come up with a few outrageous ones, but I told her to leave it be, and to spread these.  Though knowing her, she’ll spread a single outrageous one, and that’ll be the rumor we’ll never hear the end of.”  She looks at Leliana and Josephine, and the three of them laugh merrily.

“Oh, don’t look so dour, Cullen,” Dorian says, smiling.  “Remember what we discussed.  Enjoy being the swirling center of attention from both women and men alike.  And if you cannot enjoy it, pretend to enjoy it.  Much of our success hinges on the nobility being distracted by you.  Play it up, toy with them just a tad, and we should have smooth sailing.”

Cullen wants to do none of these things, would rather be back in Skyhold with a sword in hand, yelling at recruits.  Maker take him, he would rather be checking the requisition list against the stores and doing inventory.  Anything, he’d rather do anything than be dangled like a pretty necklace in front of a gaggle of crazed nobles, left to twist in the wind, his skills unused.

“Commander, recall your duty.”  Aeveth’s voice is cool once more.  “I know you mislike it, and I am sorry, but this is your job tonight and for however many more nights we spend at the Winter Palace.”

“And how many more nights are we planning to stay, Inquisitor?” he asks evenly, telling himself not to grit his teeth.

Her response borders on icy.  “As many nights as needed, until our safety and continued existence is assured.”

Cullen does grit his teeth then.  “To work?”

Aeveth nods, reaches for the double doors of the suite.  “To work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a bit of love in the comments, if it please you.


	9. Chapter 9

Dorian rests his forehead against the main door of the suite and closes his eyes. Maker, but that was a trial. Between Cullen’s intense discomfort at dinner and Aeveth’s masterful, careful dance of words with Celene and Gaspard, he is, just as a spectator, stressed out. He can’t even begin to fathom how Aeveth feels; she had spent most of the night talking amiably with Gaspard, which was a surprising turn of events given what happened earlier in the day.

He opens the door to the suite, and immediately feels a weight lift off his chest. Packs are lying scattered across the polished floor, Bianca is perched on the surface of a large table, and Sera’s longbow, unstrung, rests in the corner to the right of the entrance. Iron Bull, Varric, and Sera have arrived, and not a moment too soon.

He pulls his mask off and sets it gently down on the table beside Bianca. Dorian sighs, letting his hand linger on the black velvet, drawing his fingertips along the smooth lacquer of the variegated red enamel snakescales that cluster along the bottom right. They cover the mask diagonally in a spray, the scales becoming more sparsely populated as they approach the top left. His other mask is beautiful, but Dorian likes this one, likes the drama and the boldness of color.

He hears voices coming from the drawing room on the right side of the foyer. Dorian walks over, the slightly raised heels of his boots clacking sharply against the marble floor. He knocks twice before entering.

“Hey Sparkler!” Varric lifts a hand in greeting.

“Varric,” Dorian acknowledges. “Sera, Bull. I’m glad to see you.” He heaves a long, dramatic sigh. “I’m _exhausted_ , and it’s only the tenth bell. What an evening.”

“Poor fare at the state dinner, Sparkler?” Varric chuckles. “Too much salt in the soup? Greens not crisp enough? Had to ask for a refill on wine? No one died?”

Dorian takes a seat next to Iron Bull on the couch. “None of the above, dwarf, though a death would have made the evening more entertaining. No, I spent my dinner babysitting Cullen. I could hardly concentrate on my own food and drink.” He looks around the room; it is disappointingly lacking in alcohol. “And no wine here either. You are all taunting me. You want me to perish.”

Bull laughs, settles a large, warm hand on Dorian’s thigh. “I brought maaras-lok, if you want some of that.”

“Maker, no, I refuse to drink any of your disgusting Qunari excuse for a distillation.” What he really means is that of course he’ll take some later, in the privacy of their rooms. Bull’s hand tightens on his leg for just a second; Dorian shifts, puts his shoulder against the Qunari’s.

“So did you save any food for us?” Sera asks, leaning forward from her seat on a large armchair, putting her elbows on her knees. “I’m hungry, yeah?”

“You’re always hungry, Sera. And I can hardly scoop leftovers from my plate into a napkin and spirit them out of the dining hall.”

She snorts, leaning back. “Piss. I don’t see why not. Food’s just gonna go to waste anyway. Coulda done some good yeah, instead of being tossed out.”

Dorian throws his hands up in exasperation. “I’m sorry, Sera, next time I will just tell the servants to scrape the plates directly into your waiting mouth.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, poncey-pants.”

“I can actually imagine that.”

“This is going in the book, innit?”

“No, I think I can leave that particular detail out.” Varric gives Sera a look, then turns his attention to Dorian. “However, Sparkler, I’m going to need you to give a full account of tonight’s dinner, starting with the part about babysitting poor Curly.”

“All of it, Varric? Can’t you spare any mercy in your flinty dwarven heart for a man dying of thirst?”

Varric picks up a leather-bound book from the low table beside him, produces a quill from somewhere else. “There’s water on the sideboard.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Dorian scowls.

Bull laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. Dorian feels it through his shoulder, the vibrations reverberating through his own body. “Give me a minute, I’ll go round up something to eat and drink. Sera, did you…?”

She waves a hand at Bull dismissively. “Yeah yeah, my people, right, go on then and check.”

“Be back in a minute.” Bull’s shoulder harness creaks as he gets up. Immediately, Dorian moves into his warm spot, relaxing and crossing his legs in front of him fetchingly. He sets aside a small moment to admire the fit of his new boots. He does have such shapely calves, and the boots only enhance their allure.

Varric picks up the deck of cards also on the table, shuffles easily, the staccato slaps of laminated paper a calming sound in the silence. “What’re we in for while we wait? Diamondback?”

Dorian shrugs. “Sounds fine.”

Bull comes back some time later, a decanter of wine in hand. “All clear,” he says cheerfully. “You’re good to talk if you want.”

“Where’s the food, Bull?” Sera asks, irritated.

The Qunari goes to the sideboard, picks up a glass, pours, walks it over to Dorian. “It’s on the way, Sera. I had to scare some of Briala’s spies shitless before I could tell them to get us food.” A pause, as Bull frowns at Dorian. “You’re in my spot.”

Dorian grins indolently. “I have claimed this spot for the Imperium, but you are free to make a new one. Your move, Qunari.”

“Vints,” Bull grumbles, sitting down heavily enough on the couch to bounce Dorian on the cushion.

“Thanks for doing a sweep, Tiny.” Varric sets his cards down, laces his fingers together, tilts his upper body forward. His necklace swings lightly as he moves. “All right Sparkler, you’re up. Let’s hear it.”

Dorian makes a face as he swallows down the wine. It’s overly sweet and cloying, without any acidity to speak of. He keeps his mouth shut, though, out of consideration for Bull. “I am absolutely certain Cullen has never had a meal quite of the caliber we had tonight. The poor man was completely lost when it came to knowing how to eat and what to eat it with. He almost ate the fish with the salad fork before I stopped him.”

“No!” Sera exclaims, opening her mouth wide in an exaggerated expression of shock. “Not the bloody salad fork!”

“I’d like to point out that people have died for lesser transgressions.” Dorian looks at Sera crossly.

“Bloody rich tits,” the elf growls. “Bloody fucking shitebag worthless -”

“As fascinating as this all is,” Varric says, interrupting, “I’d like to hear the actual interesting parts of the night, please. I’ve got a deadline tonight.”

“You’re joking,” Bull says incredulously. “A deadline? For the dailies?”

Varric’s grin is sly. “None other,” he purrs. “Aeveth has a plan, and I’m here to help execute it.”

Dorian gives Varric a suspicious look. “Has this been sanctioned by her?”

“Nightingale’s idea, actually. That one has a devious streak a mile wide.”

“I am afraid I’m going to have to disagree. With the gossip rag, not with the idea that Leliana is sneaky and dangerous.” Dorian wonders if Aeveth is still awake, and if he can slip over for a quick chat. “Cullen barely tolerated dinner after we told him about the rumors. He was practically apoplectic, and then getting propositioned a dozen times over a span of two hours’ time did not make his mood any better. Running a column tomorrow, even anonymously, would be too unkind. We are supposed to be his friends, if you recall.”

“Dorian has a point,” Bull says, musing. “Cullen isn’t into games like these. Life has always been pretty direct for him. People say what they say and they mean it, not like here. What do you think, Dorian, am I right about this? He’s pissed off that Aeveth is using him.”

“Trust you to take a complex situation and turn it into something so simplistic. If you put it in those terms, Aeveth is using everyone in this room. You, for your Ben-Hassrath knowledge; me, for my facility with politics; Sera, for her network; Varric, for his ability to wage wars with his quill. Is that what you would like this to boil down to, Bull?”

Bull holds up a hand in a pacifying gesture. “Calm down, Dorian. And yeah, what you said is all true. It’s just that we’re fine with being used, and Cullen isn’t because he has some notion deep down that being involved with her shields him from being manipulated. He’ll do what she asks as best he can because he knows what’s at stake, but he won’t be happy about it. And that’s going to be trouble.”

As one, Dorian and Varric groan. “You had to go there. You just had to go there, didn’t you?” Varric asks, straightening up.

Iron Bull shrugs. “I call it how I see it. We might as well get ourselves ready just in case the two of them forget that communication is a thing grown-ups do.”

There is silence in the room as they, one and all, think about the events of the previous year.

“So Varric,” Bull says, and his voice sounds a bit too loud. “Let’s clear the column with the boss first, all right? Make sure she knows about it, make sure she takes it to Cullen and gets it right with him.”

“Yeah,” Varric says. “All right. Yeah, I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

Dorian closes his eyes and sighs. “Bull, I think perhaps now is a good time to get out your Qunari shitbrew.”

“On it.”

Dorian moves into Bull’s spot the second he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave me some comments - or better yet, comments and coffee. All the coffee. And all the comments.


	10. Chapter 10

They gather in the dining room at the ninth bell. 

Cullen is the first to arrive. He’s there before she is, standing at one corner of the large, polished table which dominates the room, a mug of tea in his hand. Aeveth greets him neutrally, mindful of the elven servants scurrying around, preparing breakfast. Briala’s spies are everywhere, and even if these particular servants are not her agents, Aeveth is certain they all play the Game, would use any tidbit of information revealed through tone of voice or a lapse in conversation, would find meaning in any physical reaction, however slight.

So Aeveth assumes her stern Inquisitor face, crosses her arms over her chest, and places herself at the opposite side of the table. “Good morning, Commander.”

“Inquisitor.” Cullen takes a sip of his tea.

“Did you have a restful night?”

“It was adequate.” He takes another sip.

Aeveth raises an eyebrow. “Only adequate?”

His eyes meet hers, golden and warm. “I can think of several things that would improve the experience.”

 _There’s hope for him yet,_ she thinks. “Careful with your words, Commander. Heads could roll, for adequate. Whatever it is you need, be sure to let the servants know. I am sure her Radiance or his Highness would want a guest such as yourself to sleep in the utmost comfort. I know I would, assuredly, were you in my house.”

Aeveth hears a slight hitch of breath from the elf by her elbow, knows that her message has been received without ambiguity. She wagers Cullen will be drowning in pillows by day’s end.

“I have every reason to believe the truth of that statement, Inquisitor.” A faint smile, the right side of his mouth turning just slightly more than the left.

Leliana and Josephine arrive; the table is set; Aeveth counts eight plates, not nine. She knows without a doubt that Sera has been excluded. She huffs and scowls deeply, makes sure that the servants see it. “You there,” she says imperiously to a passing elf, reaching out, grabbing a shoulder. The girl squeaks. “There are nine of us, not eight. See to it the mistake is not made again, or else I shall be angry.” 

“Yes, your Worship!” the elf gasps, her eyes wide. Aeveth lets her go; after a few seconds, she hears voices, raised, from the kitchen. She hopes that word of the incident reaches Briala.

The rest of her team trickles in, Vivienne included, as breakfast is being served. Aeveth eats quickly, not really tasting anything. Her thoughts are occupied with her plans, with her formulation of attack. Of the three co-rulers it is Briala who will be the easiest to deal with, followed by Celene, and then Gaspard. _Then again_ , Aeveth thinks, _after last night’s rousingly successful talk, he might be less of a headache than Celene._ She makes a note to write a long letter to Ser Michel, thanking him for the advice. His letter had been honest and refreshingly to the point, praising Gaspard as a man of integrity and honor, and it had changed everything about how she approached him.

Aeveth finishes her last bite, drains her teacup. “Leliana,” she says. “It’s time.”

“All right,” the former bard says, wiping her mouth delicately with a napkin, standing. “Iron Bull, if you could come with me please?”

“Sure thing, Red.” Bull snags a croissant from the platter in the center of the table before pushing back from his place.

The two of them clear the suite of servants in short order. Aeveth pours herself some more tea as she waits for them to complete their perimeter sweep, smiles as she listens to Sera’s inane chatter, laughs at Dorian’s exasperated responses. Varric is cheerful this morning as well, tossing banter back and forth with Cullen, egging Dorian to take on another bet the mage is sure to lose. Aeveth smile turns smug as she hears a muffled thumping coming from the wall by the china cabinet.

Silence falls as Leliana and Bull return. Aeveth stands then, and puts her hands on her hips. “All clear?” she asks.

“We’re good, Boss.”

“Excellent work.” Aeveth breathes in and studies her plate for a second. “All right, since I don’t believe in drawing things out, I will speak plainly about my plans here in Orlais. As you all know, we are here to secure the future of the Inquisition. To that end, I have created a strategy which I hope will result in the best outcome for us. Regarding the heads of state, should I get them privately, I hope to offer each something they want. For Briala, I will support elven rights, as well as a representative to the Council of Heralds, and order a major drawdown of forces in the lands that are now hers.

“For Celene, I will dedicate a squad of agents specially trained by Leliana herself, with the assurance that they will be loyal only to her. She is vulnerable without Ser Michel’s protection. She cannot trust the chevaliers as Gaspard is still their head. Briala has her own network to run, and the two no longer have the bond they once did. In addition, I am offering her a one-way information sharing contract between the Inquisition and Orlais.” Aeveth notices Leliana’s nose wrinkling just slightly. “Sorry, Leliana.”

She continues. “Lastly, for Gaspard, I am prepared to sign over a percentage of our troops to help rebuild the Orlesian army, as well as our unequivocal support should Orlais ever come under the threat of invasion from the Qunari or the Tevinter Imperium. We will not, however, support any campaigns against the Free Marches, Nevarra, Antiva, or Ferelden.” 

Aeveth turns her head, indicates that it’s Cullen’s turn to talk. “Commander, have you anything to add?”

Cullen shakes his head. “As much as it pains me to lose good soldiers, the Inquisition cannot continue to support its current numbers without some drastic changes being made. Will we be able to gain farmlands?”

“I am not certain, but it is something we can negotiate. Anora was opposed to carving out a piece of the Bannorn for us. I can’t see Celene agreeing to something similar unless we give her the hard sell. Perhaps some trade agreements instead.” Aeveth pauses to rub her forehead with two fingers. “I would like to add a conscription clause to one of our treaties as well. Josephine? I hate to burden you more, but I will need a mutual defense pact.”

“Inquisitor, it is hardly a burden. I will draw one up and have it ready by evening.”

Aeveth looks back to Cullen. “What’s a reasonable conscription rate, Commander?”

Cullen sighs, thinks about it for a moment. “That’s difficult to say, Inquisitor. Traditionally speaking, either it was one able-bodied person from each household, or a mandatory draft. Without knowing specific numbers, I can’t give you any definite answers.”

She nods, pursing her lips. “All right, we’ll leave it up in the air then. Any questions before I move on?”

“Yeah,” Sera says. “What do we get out of it?”

“I was just coming to that part,” Aeveth says, grinning. “I’ll be pushing for a continuation of things as they stand now.”

Sera makes a face. “Well, that sounds like a shite agreement for us.”

“It might sound like it, Sera, but it isn’t, not by a long shot. If I play things right…” Aeveth’s voice drops. “I will make a bid for the eluvians. Briala has me to thank for her current standing.”

Clothes rustle as everyone sits forward. “Eluvians?” Dorian asks. “As in plural, more than one eluvian?”

Aeveth nods. “I don’t have confirmation and it’s unlikely that I will get it, unless Morrigan or Solas suddenly appear.” Maker, did she wish Solas would just appear. “Ser Michel hinted at it - he is still loyal to Celene and would not betray her secrets, but he mentioned traveling with Gaspard on foot for some time after he was separated from her. Briala’s network has grown immeasurably large, and she is reported to be in several places, almost simultaneously. And Morrigan spent some time researching the eluvians here. It’s the only conclusion I can come to. The chances are remote that we will gain access, but... “

“Just the knowledge that you are aware could be enough leverage,” Leliana finishes for her.

“Yes.” She looks down again, runs her finger along the fine linen of the tablecloth, takes a deep, steady breath to prepare herself for what is coming. “The next part of the strategy is _diversion._ Undoubtedly the nobles will want us out of their lands, or want us to take care of their problems while on their lands. I could not possibly care less about their troubles at this time, especially not when my task is to protect all of you.” 

Aeveth looks around the table, meets every set of eyes. “That is my _only_ task,” she stresses, stabbing a finger into the table, “and I mean to be successful. I will be relying on all of you to provide entertainment for the whole of the Winter Palace. We have already begun with rumors about Cullen’s eligibility. I have the utmost trust that you will lead the lords and ladies a merry chase around the truth of the matter.” 

Cullen’s face goes stony.

She feels something give in her. “Cullen, I’m sorry.”

“We’ll talk later.” He crosses his arms as if to ward her away.

Aeveth closes her eyes, painfully aware that the entire table is staring at her. Slowly, she exhales, folds her hand into a fist, presses her knuckles hard against polished oak. “In these games of diversion, nothing is sacred. I need time and space to work with Celene, Gaspard and Briala. We have all of today and most of tomorrow before the ball in the evening and the conclusion of the official diplomatic mission. I want the nobles to have nothing on their minds but gossip and intrigue until then. To that end…” Here, Aeveth tries to make eye contact with Cullen, but his eyes are fixed firmly upon his plate. “...my eligibility will also be up for debate. And, if need be, the answer to the question will be that I am available.”

Cullen jerks bolt upright, his hands hitting the table. Silverware clatters loudly against china. “Aeveth, _no_ , you cannot be serious -”

“I am, Cullen. Absolutely serious.”

Stunned silence greets her for the next few moments before Bull exhales, whistling. “Boss,” he says, and there is a hint of hushed awe in his voice, “you sure know how to push all in.”

Aeveth speaks to Bull, but she can feel the searing heat of Cullen’s gaze on her, burning. “You of all people should be the least surprised, Bull. Am I right? Truly, you aren’t surprised.”

Iron Bull folds his lips together into a line before he replies. “No. I’m not.”

“Well then. If there are no questions, then you are all dismissed. We have a garden party for which to prepare, and Thierry will be here soon.” Her voice is remarkably level given Cullen’s expression.

Aeveth straightens, her thoughts racing. What was it that Solas had said to her, right before her final battle with Corypheus? _Harden your heart to a cutting edge, and put the pain to good use._ She can hear his words clearly in his soft tenor, with that accent, untraceable, as if he were whispering in her ear.

 _I will, Solas,_ Aeveth vows. _I will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like this fic just got serious. Ah well, I knew I couldn't stay light and fun forever! Leave me some comment love, if you're so inclined.


	11. Chapter 11

“Inquisitor,” Cullen seethes. “A word.”

“Just a moment,” she says over her shoulder, then turns her attention back to Iron Bull and Varric.

Cullen growls. “No. _Now._ ” He seizes her upper arm.

It surprises her, not in a good way. Her words are clipped, bitten off, sharply enunciated. “What - ! Cullen, let go of me.”

“Not until we have a _talk,_ ” he says through gritted teeth.

“I’m busy presently,” she snaps. “ _Unhand me,_ or -”

“Or what?” he challenges her, getting into her space, looming over her. “We are going to have a talk, you and I, this very minute. In front of everyone or in private, I care not, but we need to have a _discussion._ ”

She glares at him, but it only serves to make him grip her tighter. “If you let go of me,” she grinds out, “then I will go with you.”

Cullen releases her. She continues to glare at him, her eyes dark with emotion; she straightens her sleeve, fingers hovering over the spot where he’d grasped her. With a huff, she sets her hand firmly at her side. “Lead on.”

He strides to the side hallway that leads down to the master suite, traverses its length quickly, opens the door and shows her in. Cullen keeps his mouth closed until he shuts the door. The sound of it slamming is loud, and Aeveth flinches.

“Cullen - “ she begins.

“ _No_ ,” he says hotly. “No. For once, I will speak first.” Level, he tells himself, he needs to get control of his anger, he needs to be level. “What in Andraste’s name were you thinking?!” he explodes.

Cullen can see the jut of her jaw when she turns her face up to look at him, hands balled into fists, eyes defiant. “I was _thinking_ of shielding you,” she tells him acidly.

“Shielding me! How in the Maker’s name was that supposed to be shielding me?! How is making yourself available - how is that _shielding_ me?”

“Use the brains the Maker gave you,” she hisses at him. “You were so uncomfortable with all the attention that I put myself next to you so you wouldn’t have to be alone. Now you will have _less_ attention. Isn’t that what you wanted, Cullen?”

“Maker’s ass, Aeveth! You have the _strangest_ way of showing consideration,” he growls. “Why didn’t you tell me first?”

“I didn’t even come up with the idea until the briefing!” she exclaims, exasperated. “Clearly it was a bad one. I’m _sorry,_ Commander, for trying to take your feelings into account while scheming. Breach of protocol on my part. You don’t get any special treatment. Next time, I will leave you hanging, as you deserve.”

Cullen’s hands fist themselves so tightly that his knuckles crack. “No, that wasn’t at all what I meant! _Maker_ , Aeveth, you might actually have to - or there will be marriage proposals, or -”

“I’m counting on it,” she interrupts. “Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, the Inquisitor, is sadly single, and cannot stay unmarried forever. She stands to inherit as the eldest in her family. What noble wouldn’t want that? The Inquisition and Trevelyan lands. Power enough to change the entire continent if one so chose. It’s impossible to ignore.” 

“I thought you didn’t care about your title.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why do this?”

Aeveth makes a strangled noise of frustration. “Can you just get over yourself and _think about it?”_ She looks at him again, and somehow, her glare intensifies. She lifts a hand, poking him hard in the chest. “I’m not going to explain myself any further. You need to separate your mind and your heart, Cullen. This has no bearing on what is between us!”

He throws his arms up in the air, half-turns away. “How can you do that? How can you separate yourself so neatly from all of this?”

“Easily! The question is, why can’t you? You understand my position. I am here to protect the interests of the Inquisition. _I will have my way_ , Cullen, these damned Orlesians cannot stop me. I will be as cold as I need to be in order to see my goals met. When you play the Game, you win or you die.” 

Her voice drops. Her next words give him chills. “When I play the Game, _I win_.”

Cullen’s feels his nostrils flaring, but he has no response to her passion, her sudden venom.

Just as suddenly, it drains away. Aeveth sighs, puts a hand to her head, hides her eyes with her fingers, is silent for heartbeats upon heartbeats. “I love you, Cullen,” she says, sounding exhausted, not looking at him. “More than life itself. More than is reasonable for someone in my position. Please understand that the Inquisition is more important than my feelings, more important than the things I want for myself. This is nothing more than tactics, Cullen. And I need you to do your job, so that we can go back to Skyhold, relax, and forget all this.” She reaches out, takes his hand hesitantly. 

It takes a moment for him to let go of his feelings, to place himself in her position and attempt to understand how much duress she is under. Finally, he nods and squeezes her hand. “I will hold you to that,” he says gently.

“I’m sorry for not giving you enough warning.”

Cullen exhales long, pulls her into his arms. “Forgiven. I’m sorry for letting my temper get the better of me. Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head, pokes at her arm experimentally. “I don’t think there will be any bruising.” Aeveth sighs again, leans her head against his chest. “Just a few days more, my love. Then we’ll quit Orlais, and hopefully not return for a good, long time.”

“That is my sincerest hope.” He leans back enough to get a hand between them, tilting her chin up with his knuckle. Their kiss is long and tender, full of apology.

Aeveth breaks away finally, caresses his cheek with her thumb. “Strength, Cullen. We will do this, the Inquisition will go on, and then we can go back to our outdoor proclivities.”

Cullen’s laugh bursts out of him, shaking his shoulders. When he can breathe again, he says, “You are the world’s most incorrigible, distracting woman, do you know that?”

She snickers and opens the door. “Come out when you’re ready, Cullen. Thierry has another fabulous outfit for you today, I am sure.”

He takes a minute to breathe deeply, calling upon old calming exercises taught to him in training, so many years ago. Aeveth is right, of course; he has to play along so that she can get the treaties signed, but Cullen isn’t sure if he can stop himself from reacting should she receive any marriage proposals. Maker help him, or help the other man, if it actually happened.

Cullen leaves the room, closing the door with more gentility than he showed it before. He can hear Thierry faintly from the salon, the exclamations of the women as the dressmaker unveils wonder after wonder, Iron Bull’s low rumble of approval. He sighs then, feeling put-upon; he rubs the back of his neck, and goes to find out what ridiculous getup Thierry has ready for him.

*** *** ***

For the second time in two days, Cullen has to admit that Thierry is a master of his craft. His clothing today is actually comfortable and somewhat practical.

Cullen’s peripheral vision is partially blocked by the white, furred sash draped over his shoulder, reminiscent of his furred coat, hanging forlornly on the back of his door. He remembers that the sash is pinned in place with a steel Inquisition insignia at least four inches in diameter, recalls he is wearing a burgundy velvet tailcoat with intricate gold thread embroidery all over it, and changes his mind about the practicality. It isn’t, at all.

But at least it is Fereldan in style. Cullen feels a little more like himself in a starched, stand-collared white shirt with round jet buttons, worn under a proper waistcoat, cumberbund and belt. He’s wearing the fawn breeches again, with matching fawn leather gloves that go up to his elbow; his sword is slung around his hips.

“Commander!” Dorian saunters over, a flute of champagne in his hand. The Tevinter mage is looking particularly radiant, and Cullen can’t decide if it’s because of the draped, high-collared, shoulder-baring, asymmetrical white jacket reflecting the sun, or if Dorian has simply had too many drinks in too short a time. 

Dorian grins slyly. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, eating canapes and dodging Orlesians is one of my favorite pastimes, I try to do it every Sunday.” Cullen narrows his eyes at Dorian, wonders if he can even see it from behind his mask.

“Speaking of those Orlesians - “ Dorian snags another flute of champagne off a passing servant’s tray, “- where are they? You are surprisingly alone, my friend.”

Cullen points to Varric, standing on a chair, gesturing grandly, surrounded by women. 

“Oh.”

“I owe him.”

“So you do. Well, Cullen, I believe congratulations are in order.” Dorian lifts both glasses in salute.

Cullen’s brows furrow. “Whatever for?”

“Surviving this long unmolested at this party, of course. In a little while we shall retire to our chambers, where there are only marginally fewer spies and busybodies, and be glad that today’s affair has been rather dull. The bard has sung only a few offensive songs, and no one has died.” Dorian swirls the contents of one glass; the bubbles rise up in the golden liquid, popping sibiliantly.

Survival is correct, Cullen thinks, though he hasn’t gone unmolested. He doesn’t think he’s ever talked so much about himself while simultaneously revealing so little. His bottom, among other things, has been pinched or grabbed more times than he can count. The next person to touch him, he thinks, is going to receive more than just a politely indignant protestation. 

Out of the corner of his eye he catches the sight of slashed petticoats, headed his way. “Dorian,” Cullen says, dreading the encounter, “hold off on those congratulations. Pray for me instead.”

Dorian laughs.

Cullen is in the middle of deflecting rumors when he hears the commotion. Curious, he looks up. A crowd of nobles has gathered around the entrance to the garden. Beyond the gate, he can see a horse, riderless, reins dangling loose. Indignant cries rise from the nobles as the interloper shoves his way through the press, bellowing for the empress.

Cullen is already halfway to the man, his hand on his sword, when Dorian catches up. “Cullen,” the other man says, laying a hand on his forearm, “let Aeveth deal with it. Trust me on this.”

Wary, he watches as Aeveth leaves Gaspard’s side and walks over to the party crasher. Her voice is calm, measured. “Grand Duke Gaspard,” she says, “who is this intruder?”

“Jean-Gaspard de Lydes,” replies the Grand Duke. “And he is acting rather churlishly, given the weight of his name.”

“De Lydes.” Aeveth’s head tilts to the side as she thinks, the sunlight catching on the mosaic of mirrors on her pure white mask. “I remember you. You lost the duel for your claim to Lydes. Why are you here?”

“Why indeed.” The crowd parts to admit Celene and Briala. “You bring disgrace upon us, Ser Jean-Gaspard. I have previously rejected your petition for redress. The duel was fair. You, as a chevalier, should know this. Have you lost your honor as well?”

“I have not,” Jean-Gaspard says tightly. “I challenge the veracity of the duel as it was not fought by legal parties.”

Aeveth’s face remains impassive under her mask. “You have ridden here and intruded upon an event to which you were not invited. You claim Duchess Caralina inherited her lands unfairly despite her Radiance’s words to the contrary. I can only assume that you have come to address your grievances with me, as you perceive me to be at fault.”

Jean-Gaspard laughs derisively. “With you, Inquisitor? With an upjumped Marcher noble one step up from a commoner? No. I come to treat with the empress and the grand duke.”

“And Ambassador Briala.” Aeveth draws herself up; in her dress and jacket, all white and silver she is elegant and severe. “Have a care with your words, ser. My patience runs thin today, and I do not take kindly to insult.”

“Uh oh,” mutters Dorian. “I will need to find a seat. I believe Aeveth is about to give us a show.”

“It was not an insult. That would imply I gave those words thought. I care not for the state of your patience, nor for knife-ears above their station.” A shocked murmur goes through the crowd.

“You forget yourself, ser!” Aeveth’s voice is like a whipcrack, sharp and cold. “You push too far, too hard. I would normally ignore such a gauche display of foolishness, but I have no choice but to respond to your deathwish in front of our esteemed company.” 

Cullen watches her, holds his breath, feels portent coil within him, dire.

She commands full attention when she speaks, and her voice carries easily over the crowd. “For Orlais; for Empress Celene, Grand Duke Gaspard, and Ambassador Briala; for the honor of chevaliers, which you have besmirched; and lastly, my honor, I challenge you to a duel.”

Aeveth lifts a hand, rips her mask off, and throws it at Jean-Gaspard’s feet.

This time, a shocked gasp rises.

“What did you _do_ , Cullen?” Dorian asks him quietly. “I have never seen her act this aggressively.”

“I wish I could say,” Cullen responds, worried. “I thought we had settled our differences.”

Behind him, Varric says, “Aw, shit.”

Jean-Gaspard laughs again. “You, Inquisitor? Where is your champion? I will fight him instead.”

Cullen closes his eyes, sighing resignedly, and has his sword drawn halfway before Aeveth interrupts him.

“No, Commander. I will handle this myself. Ser Jean-Gaspard, how much honor do you have left? Will you fight me, now that I have issued the challenge?” A flicker of green. The anchor flares to life, hissing and crackling upon Aeveth’s hand. “Draw your weapon, ser. Let us settle this.”

Jean-Gaspard does so, steel rattling free of the scabbard, ringing slightly as it clears the top. “No second, then?”

Aeveth motions for the crowd to draw back. “Against you, ser, I need none.”

Cullen doesn’t move until a hand grabs him by the shoulder and drags him backwards. “Cullen, she has this under control,” Bull says to him calmly. “Just watch. She has a plan.”

And even though Cullen has been told Aeveth is a capable fighter, has seen her firsthand in action, he can’t help but feel anxious, butterflies starting in his chest and stomach. He tries to reassure himself; Leliana, Dorian, Bull, Varric, Sera, and Vivienne are all nearby, and the lack of reaction from them tells him all he needs to know about how much danger Aeveth is in. Even so, Cullen feels apprehensive, knowing that chevalier training includes in it some Templar abilities, such as magic negation.

Jean-Gaspard salutes, smirking because Aeveth cannot return the gesture. He settles his sword in front of him loosely, turning his body to the side, and advances.

Aeveth backs up carefully, keeping the distance between them. She raises a hand and gestures; ice forms around Jean-Gaspard’s feet.

He looks down, snorts, closes his eyes. Cullen can see the ripple of Jean-Gaspard’s cleanse as it pushes out, and the ice shatters, sublimates away.

“Would you like to forfeit now, before it’s too late?” Aeveth asks, raising her hand again. Cullen smells ozone; with a loud crack, a lightning bolt strikes, burns a hole in the grass a foot in front of the chevalier. Jean-Gaspard leaps backwards.

“The forfeit would not be mine,” Jean-Gaspard counters. A second lightning bolt flashes down, closer this time, but missing again. Frowning, Cullen tries to ascertain Aeveth’s strategy.

“You keep missing, Inquisitor!” Jean-Gaspard calls out as a third lightning bolt stabs down, inches from him.

“Hardly,” replies Aeveth tonelessly. Her eyes are wintry, frightening.

Cullen sees her blur, and suddenly she has left long attack range. She closes faster than the blink of an eye, appears in melee, close enough to kiss. Her right hand is a white, whistling ball of electricity which she slaps on his blade. Jean-Gaspard shouts his surprise, is blown backwards what must be ten feet, landing on his back, body seizing, sword dropping from fingers that cannot respond.

In one movement Aeveth draws her dagger and leaps forward. She arrives just as the chevalier is trying to sit up and lashes out with a high-heeled foot, her kick landing square on his forehead. Cullen winces as he hears Jean-Gaspard’s head hit the ground. Before his skull can finish rebounding Aeveth is upon him, one knee on his chest, leveling the point of her knife at his throat.

It is very sharp, Cullen knows. He’s the one who sharpens it.

“Your Radiance!” Aeveth calls out. “Your Highness! Lady Ambassador! Shall his life be spared?”

Cullen prays for the three of them to say yes, even as he knows it will not be so. As bad at the Game as he is, even he can see how boldly she has moved, how utterly she has controlled the board. _I will be as cold as I need to be in order to see my goals met_ , she had said. Cullen’s skin tightens into goosebumps. 

_Don’t do this, Aeveth, please._

The three rulers look at each other, and as one, they nod. “It shall not,” Celene says.

Aeveth does not even blink as she moves her dagger from Jean-Gaspard’s throat to his eye. “Tell Andraste that her Herald sent you,” she says darkly, right before she inhales, loud, and stabs down.

Blood sprays, spattering Aeveth’s swan-white dress with drops of spreading red. The crowd erupts with noise as she stands and bows to the three heads of state. The expression on her face is one of icy revulsion as she walks away, stiff, and exits the garden.

 _Oh, my love,_ Cullen thinks, his heart aching. _You win. You have them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I even surprise myself with where I take things. Feel free to leave comments, I gotta walk this chapter off.


	12. Chapter 12

“Aeveth.” Dorian knocks on the door softly. “May I come in?”

It’s a moment before he hears anything. “It’s open,” she says, her voice coming through faintly. He pushes down on the handle and steps in.

She’s sitting on a windowseat in a recessed alcove, her head leaned against the glass of the window, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She is naked save for her underthings, and beside her is her party dress, a heaped pile of white spotted with rusty red. Her face still bears the splashes of dried blood from the duel.

“My darling girl, you look positively garish. That is not a particularly good - " Dorian pauses to waggle his fingers at her, " - on you.” He approaches, holding Aeveth’s mask. He places it on the bedside table, then joins her on the windowseat. “And why didn’t you tell me you had such a lovely room? I have a backlog of books to read, you know, and not enough silence in which to read them.”

She gives him a wan smile. “Living with Bull proving too taxing?”

“Taxing. Yes. Let us remain there, and not go any further.” Barring their nighttime activities, life is pleasantly serene for the both of them at the moment, and Dorian rather likes it. “But enough about me. Ha! Aren’t you surprised? I came to see if you were alright.”

Her smile grows wider by millimeters. “Dorian, underneath all that beautifully moisturized skin and perfectly curled mustache, there is a tender heart twice the size of everyone else’s. I’m not surprised in the least. I’m glad it was you.”

He beams at her in gentle amusement. “Don’t tell anyone my secret. Wouldn’t want it ruining my sterling reputation.”

Aeveth sighs then, and Dorian notices the small movement of her thumb, stroking a coin held in her fist. “Oh Dorian, how could you ruin that which you never had?”

He purses his lips at her then, cocks his head to the side. Holding out his arms, he says, “Come here. You’re a mess.”

She stirs, slides across the wide cushion, comes to a rest in his arms with her forehead tucked into his neck. He makes a face when he sees the splatters of dried blood extending from her cheek to her hairline. He tightens his arms around her anyway. Dorian’s next words are quiet, just loud enough to reach her ear. “Cullen’s worried sick about you.”

Aeveth doesn’t respond. She holds up her hand, opens it up, reveals the coin. “The commander need not worry,” she says finally. “There will be no threat to us from Lydes.”

Ah, still playing the Game, then. “A relief, to be sure. You were spectacular out there today, by the way. Masterful use of dramatic tension. I could hardly have done it better myself.”

She curls into herself, pushing her forehead against him, much like a cat. “I hope everyone enjoyed the entertainment.” Her hand closes back into a fist, which she then touches to her lips in a brief kiss. “The commander especially. The man can be obtuse sometimes. But I believe my message was clearly sent.”

“Yes, I believe it was.” Dorian will have to convey Aeveth’s sentiments to Cullen later. Minus the kiss of course, though he was willing to try it. “Speaking of messages, Josephine wanted me to tell you the treaties have been sent off.”

“Excellent. All of them?”

“All of them. She said it would be remiss of her not to send everything she had after the events of the party.”

He feels her cheek bunch against him when she smiles. “Knowing Josie, she probably slipped a few extra in there, for good measure. I’ll find out soon enough.” She sits up then, kisses him on the cheek. “I need a bath before I meet Celene, Gaspard, and Briala. Maker, and I have no clothes! Could you have someone send for Thierry, Dorian?”

Dorian straightens, then pushes himself off the windowseat. “I already took the liberty. He should arrive shortly. In the meanwhile, how about I draw water for you?”

“That would be lovely. Thank you, Dorian.”

She joins him in the bathroom when the water begins running, standing next to him in front of the tub, letting her head rest against his shoulder. Dorian speaks plainly now that there is cover. “You’ve received a few marriage proposals already. That’s sure to make Cullen angry.”

“Please don’t say a word to him. I will deal with them on my own.” And by dealing with them, Dorian knows she means to play her suitors against each other in order to draw more concessions. “Besides, doesn’t he have his own to deal with?”

“Aeveth,” Dorian says, not letting himself be baited, “I distinctly remember you telling him something about not keeping secrets.” There is a sachet of dried flowers lying next to the tub. Dorian picks it up, sniffs it experimentally, deems it good enough, and empties it into the water. “I love you dearly, but I vividly recall working extremely hard to get you into your current state. I won’t be a party to undoing my own work.” Working extremely hard was a fucking understatement, Dorian thinks. Rescuing Aeveth had nearly taken his heart from him; witnessing Cullen almost break himself over her was doubly painful. And then there was the period of recovery where he had watched over her constantly. Not fun, that.

“It won’t be undoing anything if he doesn’t find out, Dorian. You’re right, I did say no more secrets. But these won’t be secret for long. I just need them to be secret from him until after the ball tomorrow.” Aeveth sticks a finger in the water to test the temperature and grimaces at the result. Dorian senses her gathering her magic, feels the Veil give way. She releases her spell into the water, and they both lean back to avoid being blasted with steam. “He can know afterwards, once all is finished. And he can be as angry as he wants. I’ll weather it.”

He sighs. “Just be careful, all right? My heart can only handle so much. You’ll be giving me premature wrinkles and early gray hairs should you be at odds again.”

Aeveth crinkles her nose at him and laughs. “Knowing you, Dorian, you would find a way to turn them to your advantage. You’d be distinguished, perhaps. Wise.”

“Maker forbid that I be wise. It would be difficult to get into trouble were I so. And you know how much I love trouble.”

“I am well aware.” Aeveth tests the water again.

“Also, if you don’t mind me prying, I must ask. You took a man’s life today. I know it was a necessary move, but nonetheless I must inquire after your state of mind.” Her hand is resting on the lip of the tub; Dorian covers it with his, squeezes it lightly.

Aeveth shakes her head. “I don’t want to think about it right now. Later. After the negotiations are over for the day. Leave your door open. I’ll want your company as I drink myself into oblivion.”

“Ah.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I cannot believe I am saying this, but perhaps you should skip the booze, and go see Cullen instead. I can tell Bull and Sera to flush the spies out again.”

The look she gives him can best be described as stupefied. “Who _are_ you?” she asks, astounded.

He shakes himself, making a disgusted noise. “I hardly know. Give me a moment to rid myself of the memory of what just transpired.”

Aeveth laughs, reaches out for the faucet, stops the flow of water, stops the flow of simple truth between them. “Well, this is your cue. Out with you, and tell Josephine that I would like to see the contracts.”

He pulls her in for a brief hug. “I will, my dear. Be sure to scrub your face and neck thoroughly. You’ll come out glowing, and you won’t have those unseemly blood spots all over.”

She groans. “They’re so foul, Dorian. Some got in my mouth.”

“Enough, enough!” Dorian shudders and turns for the door. “I get the point. I’m leaving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the short chapter! As always, I love comments and will always take them if you have them.


	13. Chapter 13

The chair is mildly uncomfortable, the velvet upholstery thick but not quite thick enough to disguise the hard wood beneath. It is, Aeveth knows, designed to drive the person sitting in it to distraction, to divert the mind from its course, make it difficult to form long strings of coherent thoughts.

Luckily for her, she has the experience of an entire life in a Circle, where almost every chair is mildly uncomfortable at best. Aeveth shifts delicately in it regardless, allows her hand to flutter up from where it’s resting, puts it deliberately back down again. She lets out a little sigh for effect.

She observes the three masked faces staring at her from around the circular table. _Maker, they hate each other. I should have just executed two of them when I had the chance._ The chill in the air is palpable, emanating from all three heads of state. They sit still, not a movement betraying their emotions, but the tension is evident.

Celene is seated across from her, gowned in royal blue and masked in silver. To Aeveth’s left is Briala, in a simpler, plainer dress with a simpler, plainer mask that does little to hide her ears. To Aeveth’s right is Gaspard, attired in a well-cut jacket and a silk blouse, the Chalons family crest pinned to the silken sash he wears over one shoulder. They each steadfastly refuse to look at each other. 

Inwardly, Aeveth sighs. If she were the praying sort, she would be doing it right now. She picks up her cup of tea, takes a small sip. “I trust that you all had a chance to read the documents?”

The documents in question are sitting in several neat stacks in the middle of the table. Aeveth can see Josephine’s precise, even handwriting marching in orderly black rows across the parchment. The top document on the center pile is the treaty of open borders. _Good,_ Aeveth thinks. _We’ll begin with the easy one._

Celene reaches out, takes it, and places it in front of her. “Open borders between Orlais and the Inquisition, specifically the mountain pass through the Frostbacks.” She picks up a quill from the table, dips it into the inkwell close to the documents. “You are assuming the sovereignty of the Inquisition.”

“I am seeking to legitimize us, yes. That would make a number of matters both easier and harder.” Aeveth looks to Gaspard meaningfully. “In our current situation, we should have no issues with keeping the pass open so that commerce can flow freely.”

“Have the dog-lords agreed to this as well?” Gaspard returns her look.

It’s a good thing Cullen isn’t present. Aeveth frowns at the insult but decides to let it slide. “Only if you do. Those were their terms.”

Celene nods. “Very well. We will sign. Unlike my cousin, I do not fear the Fereldans.”

Aeveth hears the faintest angry snort from Gaspard before he picks up a quill, his motions sharp, curt. She waits as Celene, Gaspard, and Briala each sign the bottom of the treaty, then takes it and sets it aside for copying. “Celene, I hope you have considered the other proposals I have made.”

Celene pulls the next set of documents from the center pile. It’s the nonaggression treaty. She makes a show of reading it closely before passing it to Briala. “Orlais owes you a debt for saving her from Corypheus,” she says. “We will cooperate with you in your endeavors, Aeveth, but the debt will be settled after this. You ask for much.”

Aeveth turns her hands over, palms up, and shrugs. “I seek no more than what we already have. You must know I will do what I must to protect my people. Your Radiance should be intimately acquainted with that sentiment.”

“Yes, about that.” Gaspard leans forward, sets his hands, interlaced, on the table. “You will only march to our aid against Tevinter and the Qunari? That is meaningless, and you know it.”

“We have built connections with other nations that we are unwilling to jeopardize. The Inquisition has no designs upon Orlais, and no wish to participate in land wars. However, we have no agreements with the Imperium nor the Qunari. So we offer aid, just in case.” Aeveth thinks about Bull and his belief in the coming invasion, hopes that happens later rather than sooner. “Besides which, should you worry about Ferelden, you will have the Inquisition to serve as a buffer.”

“And Nevarra?”

She shrugs again, then shifts in her seat. “We might be persuaded to offer our support should something happen, but I make no promises. I stand by my offers, Grand Duke. I will not discuss anything that isn’t currently on the table.” Silence falls, broken only by the sound of Briala’s quill scratching against paper.

Gaspard grunts. “Very well then. I believe you are a woman of your word. Nothing in these documents is overly disagreeable, except for the conscription.”

“I’m of a mind to table that discussion for later, if you are. Celene? Briala? I will need the assistance of Commander Cullen in these matters.” It will be a welcome relief from all his teeth grinding, Aeveth thinks.

“Conscription.” Briala speaks finally, regarding Aeveth with her head slightly tilted.

“Or training.” Aeveth meets Briala’s gaze evenly. “Elves will always be welcome at Skyhold. The bones of Skyhold are elven in origin, and I have worked too closely with them to offer anything but friendship and an open door.” She narrows her eyes ever so slightly at Briala to make her point. In response, the elf’s eyes widen, just a fraction.

She turns her attention to Celene. “In fact, we have a number of elven artifacts in Skyhold. I think they would be of great interest to your scholars. My friend Solas helped translate some of the ancient texts we found there, though we have been unable to complete them. In any case, we would welcome a research team. Skyhold has many secrets, and it behooves us to learn them.”

A smile from Celene at last. “We would be most pleased to send some scholars from the University of Orlais.”

“Yes, if your open door policy is indeed true, then I will send a delegation as well.” Briala’s lips curve up, just a hair.

Not to be outdone, Gaspard says, “If you are to draw back your forces from Orlesian lands, then I can send some chevaliers to bolster the training of those you have left.”

Aeveth allows herself a smile. “Only those forces in Briala’s lands, Gaspard. You’ll understand if we continue to staff our forward camps.”

“As long as there is no creep. Some of your forces are on my lands.”

She replies dryly, “Yes, that is part of the non-encroachment clause in the nonaggression treaty you just signed.” 

“Speaking of lands, Aeveth, how will you solve the problem of needing resources for your forces?” Gaspard’s eyes glitter, and he folds his arms over his chest.

“Trade,” she replies. “Trade, and whatever arable land we can find within our borders.”

Gaspard chuckles, a dark, gravelly sound. “I have heard your Commander Cullen has received various proposals. If he is as eligible as he seems, he could make an advantageous match.”

She puts a hand to her mouth, laughs quietly behind it. “Cullen is flattered at all the attention, and will consider all his offers carefully.”

“Is that so? Because I have never seen a man so harried. One might even say that he has the look of a man with his mind already made up.” Gaspard’s eyes, steely now, bore into hers.

Aeveth blinks slowly. “My Grand Duke, Cullen has spent his entire life in the Templar Order until just recently. He is not well-versed in court intrigue, nor has he ever had such a reception as here, in the Winter Palace. You say he looks harried; he is just overwhelmed. He has no idea of his effect on people.” She smiles coolly. “Again, he will think things over carefully.”

“And yourself?” Celene asks.

“Undecided.” Aeveth inclines her head at the empress. “I am devoted to my work, whatever happens.” She reaches out then, indicates the untouched stack of papers on the table. “We still have one matter to discuss - the mutual defense pact.”

“I have read it over,” Gaspard says, “and I am curious as to what you consider aggressive displays.”

“Your Highness, you will be the first to know if the Fereldan army marches upon my keep. Or any other army, for that matter. That is my definition, as a neutral party.” Aeveth picks up her teacup; the tea is cold. She drinks it anyway, keeping her face calm. 

Briala is the first to sign, followed by Celene. “Gaspard?” Aeveth murmurs, her lips grazing the fine porcelain of the cup. She sets it down gently.

“I will sign it, if you will grant me a private audience immediately thereafter.” He arms are still folded over his chest so that Aeveth cannot get a read on him. She doesn’t, however, miss the look that passes between Celene and Briala.

Aeveth’s lips tighten into a line as she realizes how Gaspard has backed her into a corner. “Done. Sign it, Gaspard, and we’ll talk. If you’ll pardon me, your Radiance, my lady?” Aeveth rises, shaking out the creases in her dress. Thierry, she is convinced, is fueled by divine inspiration. Nothing else can explain how swiftly he had concocted the garment. Pearlescent white dupioni silk, lined in heavier cotton, is draped and falling just so around her figure, and the dress is belted widely in a rich red and gold silk brocade.

“Of course, Inquisitor.” Celene rings a bell, and a servant appears shortly to collect the signed treaties.

“Gaspard?” Aeveth queries.

They go into an antechamber adjacent to the meeting room. Gaspard closes the door behind them, then faces her. He lifts a hand and pulls off his mask. “I’d like to speak plainly, Aeveth.”

“All right.” Aeveth carefully removes her mask. Spots of reflected sunlight dance over the walls. “What is it?”

“I find you an admirable woman. You are admirable and have proven yourself honorable, and you are in need of resources to supply your large and needy army. I have lands and resources, and Orlais is in need of an heir.” Gaspard leans forward, his voice lowering. “We could forge a mighty alliance, you and I.”

Taken aback, Aeveth stammers, “Gaspard, are - are you…?”

“Marry me,” he says.


	14. Chapter 14

“This one looks promising.” Leliana picks up a sheet of paper and paces slowly back and forth, her eyes skimming over the words. “Oh, never mind. The second daughter of a minor baron without much land to the title?” She huffs. “That’s almost insulting.”

“What about this one?” asks Josephine, indicating the parchment in her hand. “The comte is offering his only daughter, and the dowry is not extravagantly high.” Josephine pauses to tap her quill against her lips. “Wait...there has to be a reason why the dowry is only...oh, Maker. No. Unless the commander prefers older women almost at the end of their childbearing days.”

Cullen groans. “Are you two quite finished?” It’s been what feels like an hour or more.

“Not at all, Commander,” Leliana says, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “This is important business. You have many admirers, and more than a few offers of marriage. It is our duty to sort through them all.”

Josephine sets aside the sheet she’s holding, picks up another one. “The marquis de - oofff! No. This is not even within the realm of possibility.” She crumples the paper into a ball, and tosses it over her shoulder.

“What was wrong with her?” Cullen asks.

“I know her. You wouldn’t like her.” Josephine reaches for another marriage proposal.

“And how would you know that?” he presses.

“What Josie means,” says Leliana patiently, “is that the woman is ugly.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen grumbles, rubbing two fingers against his temple. “Do you think me so shallow?”

“Of course not, Commander. It is we who are discerning.”

Cullen tongues his front teeth, frowning in response to Leliana’s backhanded compliment. A servant appears at his elbow and sets a fresh mug of tea in front of him, along with a dish of sugar cubes and a small creamer. A silver spoon completes the set. “Thank you,” he says to the elf. He gets no reaction.

He drops one lump of sugar into his tea, stirs it in. Josephine shuffles through some more papers, removing ribbons from around scrolls, pulling letters out of envelopes. Leliana approaches and peers over her shoulder. “Save that one, Josie,” she murmurs, and Josephine sets it aside.

Cullen sighs, resting against the high back of the dining chair. His thoughts are scattered, flitting around like so many startled birds. The events of the garden party; Aeveth’s expression, cold, so _cold_ ; they weigh upon him, pressing close around his mind and heart, troubling him. He’s known about that side of her, seen glimpses of it surface during their time together, but to experience it in the way that he has over the last few weeks - it’s disturbing how ruthless she can be. It’s a good quality for the Inquisitor to have, he reasons, but less desirable in the woman he loves.

He wonders what she is doing at the precise moment, cloistered as she is with Celene, Gaspard, and Briala. She had left not long after the first bell, Thierry’s beautifully improvised dress making her look radiant she walked through the light-filled salon. Now it is late afternoon, and beams of strong sunlight are slanting blindingly across the polished floor.

Cullen prays that the negotiations go swiftly and well, and that Aeveth’s gambits have paid off. He hopes that they will be ready to leave Orlais in a few days, wishes fervently for them to resume life as usual in Skyhold, without the calculating, sharp edge of her mind dividing the space between them. He wants to be back in Skyhold, where a man’s life would not be so easily thrown away, where Aeveth would not have to sacrifice herself to play the Game. 

Cullen wraps his hands around his mug, the almost unbearable heat of it burning his skin dry and smooth. He hopes that she will come to him tonight, if only just for comfort. He hopes that she will allow him to help her sleep.

There is a tap on the double doors of the suite. “I’ll get it,” Cullen says, stomach muscles bunching as he rolls himself up and out of the chair, the legs scraping across the polished marble floor. He places his mug on the table next to his white-furred sash and fawn-colored gloves, walks towards the door.

He turns the latch to open it. An elven servant stands before him, dressed in finer livery than the ones in the suite. “Letters, my lord,” she says, bowing deeply, offering up a small packet of envelopes. Cullen takes them and thanks her.

He peruses them idly once the door is shut. The envelopes are all made of fine, heavy paper, hand-lettered and sealed with wax. Cullen selects one at random, tucks the rest under his arm, breaks the seal quickly and pulls out the paper inside. _On behalf of the Marquis de Serault_ , he begins to read. The rest is boring, so he skims over the document looking for something interesting other than declarations of lands and holdings. Nothing jumps out at him until the middle, where Aeveth’s name, written in full, causes his heart to stutter frantically in his chest.

Cullen draws in a long, even breath, fills his lungs from the bottom up, expands his ribcage slowly. He tells himself to calm down, that this was to be expected, that Aeveth is not going to take any of these offers seriously, that it matters nothing that other men are asking of her something he has never even dared to discuss.

His hand, holding the marriage contract, shakes.

“Cullen?” Leliana’s voice, concerned, breaks him from his thoughts. “Are you all right?”

He should answer yes. Technically, he is fine. Technically, this is all a distraction, a lark, a lengthy ploy to keep the nobles chasing their own tails. He should answer yes, because the servants are all watching him, listening to his every breath, his every inflection, his every reaction, voluntary and involuntary. He should answer yes even though he’d much rather say no, not at all.

“I’m fine,” he tells Leliana. He forces himself to say his next words. “It looks like the Inquisitor has won her first suitor. This is a marriage proposal from the Marquis de Serault.”

Josephine closes her eyes for a brief moment, turning her head slightly to the side. In just those tiny gestures she shows her disdain and thinning tolerance for nobles reaching beyond their station. “Her first, indeed. I will take that, Commander,” she says, after drawing air loudly through her nose. “What else do you have?”

“I haven’t looked,” Cullen replies honestly. “Here.” He walks the letters over to Josephine, sets them into her open palm. “Have you more need of me this afternoon?”

He doesn’t miss the look Leliana and Josephine share, lasting a millisecond too long. “No,” Leliana says.

“Until dinner, then.” Cullen goes to pick up his things from the table, unknots the sash of his cumberbund as he does so. With his free hand he picks up the mug, the tea inside still hot but drinkably so, and gulps down half of it. He replaces the mug on the table, then turns for his room.

Once in his room Cullen drops his things on the bed, shrugs off the velvet jacket roughly, almost pops buttons off in his haste to get out of the shirt. A tunic and sensible breeches is what he wants, basic, uncomplicated Fereldan clothing, but there is nothing of the sort to be found in his drawers and wardrobe. Frustrated, he pulls on one of the linen undershirts Thierry keeps providing - _does this really need to be monogrammed?_ he thinks, cranky - and, in a small act of defiance, leaves it untucked.

Cullen grabs his sword on the way out, belting it around his hips, its weight familiar and welcome. He strides out from his room, ignores the glances of the servants as he passes, exits the suite, and lets himself into the apartments across the hall.

Dorian and Bull look up in surprise when he barges in. They’re facing off against each other across a chessboard, and from the pattern of pieces, Cullen ascertains that the match is fairly even. Dorian in four, he thinks, or Bull in five, perhaps four if he moves aggressively. Cullen rakes his hand through his hair.

“Hey Cullen,” Bull says, jerking his chin towards him.

“Yes, hello Cullen,” Dorian says sardonically. “Don’t knock or anything. I wasn’t just concentrating.” He frowns as he studies a piece.

Bull flexes his pectoral muscles, the muscles twitching suddenly under his gray skin.

“Stop that!” Dorian glares.

“What exactly was it you were concentrating on?” Bull asks slyly.

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maker, can you two - is there any wine? Of course there’s wine. Dorian, where is your wine.” Cullen’s flat delivery makes it clear that he is not asking.

Bull gives him an appraising look. “Forget the wine, Cullen. Come, sit down. Watch me destroy Dorian in three.”

Immediately, Cullen scoffs. “Not a chance, Bull. Five.”

A servant appears with a chair; Cullen sits to observe the rest of the game. It doesn’t take long, and when Dorian wins Cullen straightens, feeling a touch less upset.

“Care to play, Commander?” Bull asks, collecting pieces with a large hand, resetting them upon the board. “You look like you could probably use a game.”

“No thank you. I haven’t forgotten the wine,” Cullen says evenly.

“Oh, dinner is soon, and how unfortunate for you, I am about to drink the rest of this.” Dorian stands and goes to the sideboard. He pours himself a very generous amount of wine, then tips his head back and drains the glass. “There we go. Farewell, sweet red, thou hast gone to thine rightful home.”

Bull chuckles before moving a pawn. “Your turn, Cullen.”

“I don’t think -” he starts.

“ _Your turn,_ Commander.” Bull’s eye stares him down, demanding.

“Fine!” Cullen snaps, moving from his chair to Dorian’s unoccupied seat. He grabs a pawn and moves it. “On you.”

Cullen and Iron Bull play chess; Dorian ensconces himself in a couch with a book; the afternoon sunlight soon turns red and orange, signaling early evening. The sound of the door latch gets Cullen’s attention.

Aeveth walks in, her high heels staccato clacks against the floor. The mirrored mosaic of her mask catches the light, reflects tiny beams of sun, sends bright spots scattering throughout the room, dappling the walls. Cullen can see his reflection in her mask, fractured, when she turns her head to look at him. “Commander!” she says, sounding surprised. “I hadn’t expected to see you here.” She turns to Dorian. “Dorian, your wine.”

The Tevinter mage shuts his book crisply and sits up, looking affronted. “Really, why must all of you drink my wine?”

“Because it’s available, dear,” Aeveth responds.

“Well, not anymore. I have drunk it, and I regret it not a bit. Not a drop shall pass neither you nor the commander’s lips tonight.” Dorian sniffs, then stands. “I trust everything went well?”

“Well enough.” Aeveth’s eyes meet his, and a long, lingering look passes between them. Then she turns, her skirts rustling, and leaves the room, ostensibly in search of wine. “We’ll discuss it later, at dinner,” she says over her shoulder. Cullen tears his eyes away from her swaying, retreating figure. 

Her appearance has forced thoughts of the marriage contract back into his mind. Cullen recalls why he came in the first place. “Dorian, a word if you please?”

The mage raises an eyebrow. “If you’re inquiring after more wine, the answer is no. I have none.”

Cullen decides he needs something stronger than wine. “A word somewhere private?”

Dorian sighs, then motions for Cullen to follow, leading Cullen to a small sitting room off the main salon. There is evidence of Varric and Sera’s presence: the low table in front of the couch is strewn with playing cards, empty mugs, and glass vials with questionable contents, and Bianca’s bulk rests on a corner table, filling the space, her presence like a sentinel. Dorian shuts the door carefully. “What is it?” he asks, voice low.

Cullen blows air through his mouth, rakes his hand through his hair again. “We received a marriage contract today.” 

“Only one? I could have sworn from the way the women were -”

“Not for me! For the - the Inquisitor.”

Dorian’s expression doesn’t change a whit.

Cullen frowns, suspicious. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. It should come as no surprise.”

“How many?” It’s an exercise in frustration to count, but he asks anyway. Cullen has to know.

Dorian’s shoulders droop as he sighs again. “Not more than six, I assure you.”

“Not more than - !” Cullen splutters.

Dorian shakes his head curtly from side to side. “No, Cullen. Not more than six. A modest number. An expected number. You would do well to hope for more.” A warning look.

Cullen inhales, then exhales. Faintly, the dinner bell rings.

“And that’s our signal,” Dorian says, opening the door. “Let’s go eat.”

Cullen stands in the room for a moment longer, head bowed, anger and regret warring within him. He’s angry at the situation and angry at himself; he regrets not broaching the topic with Aeveth, knows his opportunity has passed. For a moment, Cullen allows himself to think of that day spent by the lake in Honnleath, lying in the grass, fingers intertwined. He had almost asked then but didn’t, thought it was too soon, thought himself unprepared, with no ring to plight his troth.

He thinks of the house he wants to build and the children he’d like to have, thinks of simple silverite rings and being able to introduce Aeveth as the Inquisitor, the Lady Trevelyan, _my wife._

The bell rings again. Cullen shakes himself, locks his desires away, and goes to dinner.

*** *** ***

Aeveth comes to him late that night, when all is dark and still. 

She slips in like a ghost, the door opening and closing almost without a sound. He is awake, has been unable to sleep, his mind overwhelmed with thoughts of marriage contracts, of the nobles who would marry Aeveth for power, money, and influence. Despite Dorian’s reassurances - she had his coin, he’d said, don’t fret - Cullen worries still, wonders how far Aeveth will go to see things through. She is willing to pay any price, he knows. Any price, no matter the cost.

The thought of another man lying beside her, being inside her, pleasuring her, filling her with his seed _and producing an heir -_

 _No,_ he admonishes himself. _Stop. You are being foolish. She is here now, by choice. She didn’t have to come._

Cullen feels the mattress give as Aeveth climbs onto the bed, hears the hiss of the covers as she draws them over herself, welcomes her warmth as she fits herself to him like she is a key and he the only lock she can open.

They say nothing. Cullen rolls onto his side, wraps one arm around her, kisses her hair, breathes in her scent. Her fingers touch his shoulder, curl around it, and after a moment her lips find his, press against them. She tastes of mint when he teases open her mouth with the tip of his tongue, tastes of mint and honey when the kiss deepens. When it ends, she turns onto her back.

They continue to say nothing, knowing that at any given moment there could be someone listening. She takes his hand, brings it down to her hips, loosens the string of her sleeping trousers and slides his hand down into them. His fingers come to a rest between her legs, and he can feel the gently rounded mounds of her outer lips, closed, beneath the thin material of her smalls. She pushes herself against him, a request.

Cullen obliges, tracing lazy, feather-light circles over her with the pads of his middle and ring fingers. Aeveth spreads her legs wide then, rolls her body once against his hand, but Cullen doesn’t change speed or pressure, knows that this long, slow arousal is what she needs to relax and unwind.

She responds soon enough, and Cullen wishes there was at least some light in the room so he can see her lips parting around puffs of quiet air, so he can witness that upward tilt of her chin that signifies how much she is enjoying herself. Gradually, her smalls begin to get damp. Cullen applies more pressure then, fingers drawing a line over the flimsy cotton, all the way to where he can press in just a little deeper.

He just barely resists the urge to bypass her smalls and slip his fingers into her. Cullen means to savor this moment; they have not touched each other in some time, and his thirst is strong. Savor the moment, and he thinks about how slick she will be around him, how he’ll push his fingers into her all the way up to the first knuckle, how he’ll curl them up just so and cause her body to jackknife and tense, tight with impending release. Cullen means to do that and get his thumb over her swollen clit, to work her deftly until she comes and that delectable wash of slippery warmth drips down and gathers in the webbing between his fingers. He means to do all those things and more, to get a third finger into her and stretch her bit by bit, preparing her for his cock.

Instead Aeveth’s hands flutter down onto his upper arm, tightening briefly, then slackening. Cullen feels the lassitude of her body as it settles, feels the loosening of her muscles and the slowing of her breath. He realizes, surprised, that she has fallen asleep, leaving Cullen with his overactive mind and his hard, painful erection.

Thinking about all her suitors returns him to normal quickly. 

Cullen pulls the sheets up higher around his shoulders, tucks them carefully behind Aeveth’s exhausted form. Truly, he hasn’t given the matter of marriage serious consideration until now, thinking she was wholly devoted to her work. Perhaps, maybe...after this was all over...

 _Aeveth Trevelyan_ , Cullen thinks as he holds her close, curling around her body, his lips coming to a rest against her temple. He closes his eyes. _Will you marry me?_

His only response is the steady rise and fall of her chest, the peaceful respiration of her breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me love, I always love back!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art at the end!

Purple is a good color on Iron Bull.

“Madame,” Dorian says approvingly, eyeing the deep blue-violet of the tight-fitting coat, the silver slashes, and the emerald accents, “your taste is exquisite.”

Vivienne turns to him, the deep red silk of her gown rustling. She is standing at his side, as close to shoulder-to-shoulder as she can bear, one hand on her hip. Her dress is one-shouldered, the collar of it beginning in the center of the neckline. It rises, growing out of the drape of the satin, curving up partially around her neck, the vermilion of it showing off the elegant lines of her collarbone, neck, and jaw. Smooth, dark skin almost glows. “Naturally, my dear. As is my sense of dramatic fashion.”

“I would not have chosen purple,” Dorian demurs. “I find black to make more of a statement.”

“That is so pedestrian, darling. Small wonder people have low opinions of magisters.”

“Small wonder, indeed. Madame, sometimes I even wear gold and red. Shocking.” Dorian makes an exaggerated expression of surprise, pushes his eyebrows as far up his forehead as they’ll go.

“That does elevate you above your countrymen.” A sniff.

“Um, watching you two is entertaining and all, but can I move now?” Bull asks, breaking into the conversation.

Thierry walks over from the other side of the salon with something shiny dangling from his hand. “Not yet, Master Iron Bull. Madame de Fer has commissioned this eyepatch for you. You must put it on.”

“Ma’am, you didn’t have to!” Bull exclaims.

“Don’t be silly, Iron Bull, how could I not?” Vivienne takes the eyepatch from Thierry, and promptly hands it over to Dorian. “Now if you could be so kind as to put it on, darling. But turn around first, so that we do not see.”

Bull’s shoulders slump. “Aw. But it’s such an awesome -”

“No,” Vivienne says, ending the argument.

Dorian laughs quietly to himself as he goes to Bull. The Qunari turns and inclines his head, pulling off his eyepatch. Dorian slips the tie over Bull’s left horn, doesn’t look overlong at the old ruin of his eye, affixes the patch swiftly and adjusts it. It gleams gold in late afternoon sunlight streaming in from the windows, the lyrium crystals and amethysts encrusting it sending up sparks of violet and blue.

He feels the touch of Bull’s finger, a caress, on his chin. “Thanks, kadan.”

Dorian can’t help but color a little. “Ah - you’re welcome.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Amatus.”

Sera emerges from the kitchen, holding a bowl of cherries. “Oh, you’re all shiny-like!” she exclaims, popping one of the fruits into her mouth. “Pretty.” The bowl dings as Sera spits out the pit.

“You think so?” Bull grins, then turns to Vivienne. “Ma’am?”

Vivienne actually cracks a smile. “Yes. That will do, Iron Bull. Sera, do be careful with the food. You are wearing white.”

“Piss on it,” Sera replies around a mouthful of cherries. Her cheeks are bulging from the amount she’s crammed in. The pits hit the side of the bowl, rapid fire, pinging one after another as she spits.

Dorian cringes at the crass display. Sera’s behavior is at strong odds with how she looks, dressed all in white, her slender, angular form accentuated by the cut of her loose, flowing white trousers, the sleeveless, intricately sequined top. Small crystals, red and white, flash and sparkle as she moves. She looks beautiful all dressed up, Dorian thinks, with her hair properly styled and her makeup done. “Sera,” Dorian says gently, “please. At least wear something over your outfit.”

She sets her bowl down on the dining table with a sharp clang. “Fine. But only because you asked.”

Dorian can hear Thierry’s sigh. “Where is the Inquisitor?” he asks. “I have her dress, and it will take time for her to get into it properly.”

“I believe the commander went to go wake her from her nap,” Dorian answers.

“That was a while ago,” Bull says gravely.

Sera’s laugh bubbles out of her as she walks towards the main doors of the suite. As she passes Thierry, she lifts her hand to her mouth and splays her forefinger and middle finger wide around her lips. She makes sure the dressmaker can’t see what she’s doing, and gives Dorian a wicked look before sticking her tongue out between her fingers. She waggles it suggestively. 

“Sera!” Dorian’s voice is equal parts shocked and amused.

She guffaws as she leaves the suite, the door closing sharply behind her.

Dorian sighs. Bull is right in that it’s been too long since Cullen disappeared down the hallway to Aeveth’s room. “I’ll go fetch them,” he declares.

He hears raised voices as he approaches Aeveth’s room. Dorian heaves a sigh of relief. _At least I will not catch them in flagrante delicto_ , he thinks. As much as they are capable of hurting each other, Dorian cannot deny the unexplainable chemistry between them, the strange force that keeps them together, makes it unbearable for them to be apart. He raises a hand to knock on the door.

“- suitors, Aeveth. They’ll be at the ball tonight, won’t they?” Dorian’s hand freezes an inch from the door.

“Of course they will.” Aeveth’s voice, flippant. “My dance card is filling up rapidly. If you’d like a spot, best reserve one with Josephine as soon as possible.”

“Reserve?! Andraste’s flaming sword, Aeveth, half of them are buffoons you would never even notice were it not for the contracts. This is ridiculous. Cease this nonsense.”

“What is nonsensical is your notion that all this can stop. I know you don’t care for this place, but at least abide by the rules while you’re here.”

“You know I have no patience for this. You said yourself that the treaties had been signed and copied yesterday. What else is left? You’ve won, Aeveth. The game is over.”

“It is _never_ over, Cullen, and if something were to happen to reveal my hand, the Inquisition would be in disgrace. They would call an Exalted March upon us.”

“You jest.”

“Only partially! Do not forget yourself or your job, _Commander_. We are so close. Curb your impatience for one more night. Find in yourself a bit of respect for what I’m doing.”

“I am _trying_ , but you could stand to make it easier on me. It certainly seems easy for you!”

Dorian gasps, puts his hand to his mouth instead. _Cullen, you did not just…_

“Oh, Maker!” Cullen groans. “I did not mean -”

“You are _unbelievable!_ ” Aeveth is in rare form now, and Dorian can hear her fury and pain crystal clear though the door. “ _Get out_ , before I say something I cannot take -”

Silence.

Dorian’s eyes widen in shock.

There is muffled moaning, Aeveth, then an indistinguishable murmuring, deeper, Cullen’s voice. Another short silence follows; Dorian hears boot heels against the marble floor. 

Quickly, he knocks. “Commander? Inquisitor? Thierry is wondering where you are.”

The door opens, revealing Cullen’s stormcloud of a face. Beyond him, Aeveth is standing, a hand over her eyes, shoulders slumped. Without a word, Cullen shoves past Dorian and stalks out into the hallway.

Dorian stands in the doorway, sympathy welling up in his chest. “Aeveth?”

Her voice is quiet, subdued. “How much of that did you hear, Dorian?”

He winces. “A lot of it. I’m sorry, my dear.”

“I am too.” Dorian can see the change as she straightens, puts her shoulders back, assumes the mantle of the Inquisitor. “Thierry is here, you said?”

Dorian nods. “It’s time to get ready.”

“Give me a moment, if you please.”

Dorian nods again, and closes the door.

*** *** ***

The murmur of the crowd is loud when Aeveth is announced.

She appears on the steps, resplendent and glittering, stunning, luminous. The silhouette of her dress is fishtailed, the cloth of it white and shimmering, translucent almost, with elegant embroidered golden scrollwork twining from just below the bodice up to the shoulders. Over the embroidery is laid beadwork of gold and crystal in a symmetrical pattern, and if Dorian looks hard enough he can see a small Inquisition symbol at the bottom, under Aeveth’s bust. The shoulders, though - the shoulders are magnificent, golden feathers and shining crystals sewn into pauldrons, evoking the style of mage robes. Tonight, Aeveth is not subtle.

And her mask.

Flame, golden flame. From her nose up past her forehead, red points of flame extending over her head like a crown, Aeveth’s mask is a golden wonder, metallic and lacelike. The bottom of it begins as the same gold as her dress, deepening in shade to the burnished color of the top. Small diamonds are set around the eyes, and the effect only serves to intensify Aeveth’s kohl-lined gaze.

She walks proudly down the stairs, her hips swaying, head up. The murmuring grows louder when she reaches the ballroom floor and begins the long trek towards the three heads of state. Every movement Aeveth takes is grace punctuated with sparkling fire, and Dorian knows in this moment that she has captivated the entirety of the crowd in the room, knows that all eyes are riveted on her. Silence falls as the Orlesians watch her, and the clicks of her shoes, a slow tempo, serve only to highlight how completely she is commanding the room, how fully she is keeping everyone’s attention.

Dorian sneaks a glance at Cullen. His eyes are wide behind his mask, and Dorian is pretty sure the other man has stopped breathing.

Aeveth reaches the heads of state, flows into a perfect, balletic curtsy. “Your Eminences.” Her voice is low and melodious.

Applause breaks out from among the crowd, and Dorian almost doesn’t hear his own name being announced. Following Aeveth is a tough act, he thinks sourly. Even just standing there, she is the center of attention, and Dorian can hear bits and pieces of conversation as he strolls across the ballroom floor. _Inquisitor, Inquisitor_ ; the sibilance of the word fills the air like the hissing of snakes.

He joins Aeveth in front of the mezzanine and bows to all three rulers, his black velvet half-cape flowing beautifully over his left shoulder. Dorian sees the corner of Aeveth’s mouth twitch. She has an air of anticipation about her, like she is primed, ready to play. _That’s my girl_ , he thinks.

The rest of their party is announced in turn, each member placing themselves in a straight line that extends out from Aeveth. Cullen’s entrance garners a round of whispering from the women; Varric receives extra applause; scandalized cries rise from throats when Iron Bull shows up; Leliana’s notoriety precedes her, and the ballroom hushes. _We make a fine-looking group,_ Dorian thinks proudly when they are all together, and he tosses his head just a little, enough to stir the spray of miniature peacock feathers that line the right side of his mask.

Aeveth turns to him when Celene’s speech is concluded, regards him with a twinkle in her eyes. “May I have this first dance, Master Pavus? Celene, Briala, and Gaspard must wait their requisite ten minutes minimum before coming onto the dance floor, but I am impatient to get my feet moving tonight.”

Dorian grins at her, catches a glimpse of Cullen’s back as the commander quits the dance floor. Dorian extends a hand towards Aeveth and bows deeply. “Shall we make a dashing first impression?”

Aeveth smiles in return. “My darling Dorian, with a partner such as you, how could we not?”

He hears the musicians tuning. Aeveth lays her hand in his, and he leads her onto the dance floor. He slips a hand around her waist, clasps her other in the proper position, and waits for the conductor’s opening gesture.

The music starts, a waltz. They dance, whirling steps in triplicate taking them across the floor.

Dorian doesn’t miss how Cullen follows Aeveth’s every move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave me a comment if you liked it!
> 
> [Art by the lovely Tigernaute](http://tigernaute.tumblr.com)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Totally NSFW.

It is a miracle that Aeveth can still feel her feet. She has been on them for what feels like hours, exercising her entire repertoire of Orlesian-style dances, balancing lightly atop the high heels Thierry swore she had to wear. She has danced with Celene and Briala; she has danced with three of her six or so suitors; she has danced with Iron Bull and Josephine and even Dorian a second time.

Cullen keeps his distance, and Aeveth, recalling her feelings from earlier, is glad. He has his own issues to keep him busy, surrounded by women as he is. Cullen is devastatingly handsome in his midnight blue jacket, cut to accentuate the wideness of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. Golden scrollwork, a match for her dress, curls around the standing collar; a golden silk sash is tied neatly around his waist. His jacket is short, stopping just above the curve of his rear, and those breeches - Maker, it’s _sinful_. Cullen’s breeches are a medium gray with a wide golden stripe running down the outsides, and they show off his backside and thick, muscled thighs before disappearing into black leather boots.

It’s unfortunate she cannot see his face. Then again, Aeveth is relieved that she cannot, because if their faces were open and bare they would never have been able to hide the scorching looks that they’ve been exchanging. Cullen is blessedly half-hidden behind a mask of cobalt blue lined in gold, winged with long golden feathers that sweep dramatically back from his temples. Whenever their eyes meet Aeveth is reminded of the last words of their fight. _Do not lose yourself in this_ , he had said to her. _Do not go so far that you cannot come back. You are the price I am not willing to pay._

Aeveth is still angry with him, but there is something in Cullen’s eyes that gives her pause and steals her breath. It surrounds him like a halo, a charged air, laden with promise. She finds it hard to think.

“Are you alright, Aeveth?” Gaspard asks as they pull apart to bow, then close back together, hands touching.

She shakes herself from her thoughts. “Just beginning to tire, Gaspard.” They circle each other, break apart for a balancé, then return, clasping hands for a promenade around the floor.

“You seem distracted. Thinking about my offer?”

She smiles briefly. “It is easy to be distracted, with so many distractions around. Don’t you agree?”

“On the contrary,” he replies. “I find myself very focused.” The way he looks at her then makes his meaning clear.

“I am still considering, Gaspard. You haven’t given me much time.” The music resolves, and the musicians take the repeat. Aeveth bows, and the dance restarts.

His chuckle is like silk over gravel. “There is something holding you back. A treaty with Ferelden, perhaps? I cannot imagine the dog-lords would be happy with a consolidation of power between Orlais and the Inquisition.” When Aeveth’s expression doesn’t change, Gaspard goes on. “Not that, then. Your advisors, maybe?”

Aeveth automatically glances at Cullen. _Maker, no!_ she thinks, horrified. She breaks into a sudden cold sweat, manages to keep her face from showing how fatal a mistake she has just committed.

Gaspard chuckles again, louder this time. “Now it becomes more interesting. The commander? He is Fereldan, is he not? He has no love for Orlais. He has been more than capable in your service, however. A smart man like that would tell you to take the deal.”

She breathes evenly, schools her face into perfect neutrality. She is injured prey swimming in dangerous waters now, and Gaspard is a shark who smells blood. Gaspard presses himself closer to her when they begin the promenade; Aeveth tries not to react.

“And yet...Aeveth, Aeveth. Does he not know? Have you told no one?”

Aeveth holds her breath then, knowing that she has lost. Whether she says yes or no is immaterial; Gaspard has bested her, cornered her, found her weakness. Damn Gaspard, and damn Cullen, and damn her for being too in love, too affected by her feelings, to play the Game as she should.

Gaspard lets go of her hand, slips an arm around her waist instead. She can feel the heat of him as he leans in, smell the musk of his cologne. Walking, she has to keep walking, has to keep her composure, but faces are turning towards her, a sigh is rippling through the crowd, and Cullen, she knows he can hear the change. She sees him pause in the middle of a conversation and look up. Their eyes meet. He stiffens.

Gaspard’s voice is low, growling out over her ear, brushing the sensitive spot right behind it. “Commander,” Gaspard begins, and his voice drops lower. “Cullen. Stanton. Rutherford.”

Aeveth shivers, a puff of air escaping her parted lips. She can’t look away from him, but she must. She _must._

She exercises all of her will, tears her eyes away from his, looks at the polished floor of the ballroom instead.

Slowly, her hand touches Gaspard’s coat, slides around, settles around his waist. Aeveth inclines her head ever so slightly towards him. “Yes,” she whispers.

“Yes?” Gaspard asks, voice still low. Aeveth hears the closing strains of the minuet, the long march in the dominant before the tonic resolution.

“Yes, I’m in love with him. But…” Here, Aeveth bites her lip, looks away. “He doesn’t know, Gaspard. If you are curious, truly, why I haven’t… ah, emotions, Gaspard. Unfitting.”

He steps away from her as the music fades, bows low over her hand. When he rises, she can see his eyes are narrowed, calculating. “You are quite the woman, Aeveth. Save another dance for me, later.” He clicks his heels smartly, and strides off.

Aeveth holds herself very still, and tries not to tremble. 

*** *** ***

She finds Leliana, goes out onto the balcony. Leliana stands and waits, a flute of champagne in her hand, the very picture of elegance in her figure-hugging charcoal dress. The front of it plunges down to the bottom of her sternum, and the shoulders are adorned with the same gold embellishments that are on Aeveth’s dress, but aside from that, Leliana’s body carries the look, turning heads as she slinks through the ballroom, her dress liquid around her.

“What was that?” she asks Aeveth, her blue eyes sharp through her smoky makeup. “An unexpected twist in your plan, no doubt.”

Aeveth puts her hands on the rail of the balcony and stares out over the palace grounds. “I’ve neglected to tell you something important. And Josie and Cullen.”

Leliana raises a finely-shaped red eyebrow. “Might it have something to do with your display on the dance floor?”

Aeveth smiles ruefully. “Perhaps. We were in negotiations.”

“Negotiations? About what, pray tell?”

“International relations.”

“Not the sort that… oh dear. He’s going to be quite angry, you know.”

If she could, Aeveth would put her face in her hand. “This is why I need you, Leliana. Perhaps Gaspard over-interpreted my actions.”

“I see.” Leliana gives Aeveth a slight smile. “I think I shall have fun with this, tonight.”

“Do enjoy yourself, Leliana.” Aeveth watches as Leliana turns and sashays away, her glass lifting for just a second in salute.

She doesn’t have to wait long before she hears the familiar cadence of Cullen’s footsteps coming up behind her. He is angry, as expected, his boots striking the stone of the balcony in resounding cracks. He leans his elbows on the railing next to her, puts himself a safe enough distance away.

Aeveth can almost feel the shimmering waves of heat coming off of him. After a moment’s silence, she murmurs, “Take your time, Commander.”

A strangled noise, followed by, “Take my time - !”

“Peace, Commander. There’s no reason for you to be upset, remember?” She flicks her eyes to the side, stares at him meaningfully. 

His jaw clenches once, twice. “Inquisitor. Walk with me.”

They find a back staircase that leads down to the garden. Aeveth takes Cullen’s elbow as they descend, her feet throbbing from being in new shoes for too long. When they reach the bottom she removes them, sighing loudly. Aeveth wiggles her toes in the lush grass, rolls through her feet several times to relieve some of the pain, then bends and retrieves the shoes, hooking her fingers into the backs.

Cullen offers her his arm again and they walk beside the path, the fabric of her dress rustling as it drags behind her. They are out in the open, close by a fountain, when Cullen speaks. He is still angry. “Aeveth, what in Andraste’s name was all of that?” His voice sounds quietly furious.

“Just the Game, Cullen,” she says to him softly. “I made a mistake, and it showed.”

“You made a mistake,” he says flatly. “From what I saw, there was no mistake. What are you hiding from me?”

She breathes out, drops her gaze to the ground. “I was going to tell you. I _will_ tell you, I promise. Once all the pieces are in place, once I have finished making my moves. This is just like chess, Cullen. Hold your position. The pattern will become clear in time.”

“Like chess…” Cullen looks away, closes his eyes. When he opens them, electricity sparks. She feels her heart begin to pound, her blood begin to rush. “Aeveth. Gaspard practically had his hand up your skirts. I’ll not allow it.” He reaches out, grabs her hips firmly, pushes her back until she hits an ivy-covered wall. “If this is chess, then it’s my turn to make a move. Commander takes Inquisitor. Here, in the garden.” Without taking his eyes off her, Cullen lifts his right hand to his mouth, sets his teeth on a finger of his glove, and pulls it off.

“Open,” Cullen tells her, his thumb pressing upon her chin. She drops her jaw, her breath already coming in soft pants between her lips, waits as Cullen rolls up his glove tight and wedges it between her teeth. “Careful there, Inquisitor,” he says, and his voice is a sexy, raspy thing that makes the skin of her neck prickle with anticipation. “You don’t want to smear your lovely lipstick on my glove, do you? Everyone will know if you do. We are still a secret, if my memory serves.”

Cullen looks at her then, narrows his eyes, leans in until his breath caresses her ear. “Don’t make a sound, love. You fell asleep last night before we… well. I mean to finish it.”

The fabric of her gown crinkles as Cullen gathers it up and slips his hand underneath. His fingers touch the inside of her knee, press into her skin, drag slowly up her inner thigh. Aeveth holds herself against the wall and quivers, her breath shallow with anticipation. Maker, _help._ She has never seen this side of him, and despite the situation, despite knowing that if they’re caught, everything will fall to pieces around them, she wants to know what comes next. She wants to see what he is capable of, he with his golden eyes smoldering, with his hand between her legs.

“Wet already, Inquisitor? Ready for me, just like that?” Cullen waits for the answer she can’t give, not with his glove in her mouth. His fingertips brush against her; he pulls her smalls aside. She feels him trace her slit.

Her chest heaves, and air rushes through her open mouth, her nose.

“You are so…” A finger pushes past her lower lips, dips into her. Aeveth staggers, just a little, trying to spread her legs for him. “...eager, my love.” Cullen swirls his finger shallowly inside her, withdraws it, smears her slick over her inner lips. His finger dips into her again, deeper this time. He draws enough out of her to paint her from bottom to top, picks up enough to cover her clit generously. The sensations heighten, lance through her, magnified, and Aeveth can feel the faint callouses on the rounded ends of Cullen’s fingertips as he strokes her up and down, delicate. Each pass of his fingers parts her wider, opens her up, reveals her. She closes her eyes as he presses a finger directly against her clit, holds it there for seconds. She arches, body growing taut, stretching in slow motion. Maker, she is throbbing with desire. It’s unbearable.

Her head falls back against the wall.

“Careful,” Cullen growls, and her eyes fly open. “My glove, Inquisitor. I don’t want to have to explain any of…” Cullen’s fingers curl, and he swipes his knuckle against her nub, hard. “....this.”

Aeveth’s entire body twitches, jumping, and she squeaks loudly. Cullen does it again and she wails, the noise thin and high. Her knees begin to shake. She tilts her head back and wails a second time, her hands splaying against the wall, her shoes dropping onto the grass, air gusting in and out of her mouth, around the glove. “Please,” she wants to say, but of course she can’t say it. The sound that comes out of her instead makes the intensity in Cullen’s eyes grow. She swallows helplessly so that she won’t get the glove wet, keeps her lips a hair away from touching the cloth.

“Shhh,” Cullen warns her, right before he slides two fingers into her. Aeveth moans, unable to hold it back, her hips rocking against his hand. _More_ , she wants to say, Cullen knows two fingers aren’t enough, she needs at least three for it to be like him. _More_ , she begs him in her mind, but Cullen just smirks at her and stills his hand inside her, deep, and cants his head towards her until she can feel the gust of his breath beneath her jaw.

She can tell he’s smiling by the way his cheek bunches. Aeveth imagines how she must look, skirts rucked up around her thighs, panting and needy in the moonlight with Cullen’s lips hovering above her neck. She almost makes a pleading sound, but stops herself, closing her throat around it.

“Good, love. Good.” He rewards her by pulling his hand away, adding a third finger, and plunging all three inside her. She chokes on a breath, brings her hands up to his shoulders, thrusts her hips at him. She feels Cullen’s thumb on her clit, pulling down in strokes; he shoves his hand against her hard, again and again. The heat in between her legs collapses into a sparking, pulsing point, intensifies, heightens - and then everything stops and explodes.

Cullen gets an arm behind her shoulders as her knees give way, her breath razoring in and out unevenly. He keeps his thumb pressed firmly against her, pulses it until she is just a lightning rod of pleasure and mewling cries, finds that spot inside her and exploits it. Aeveth bites down on the glove hard, her voice dropping from its high register to its low, and growly moans issue from her to the play of Cullen’s fingers.

She is limp when all is finished, but limp and clear, her mind unfogged.

Cullen sucks on his fingers idly as he removes his glove from her mouth, continues to suck as he unrolls it with a snap and inspects it. Aeveth stares at him as he does so; he stares boldly back. “I am not done with you yet, love.”

Aeveth puts her weight against the wall, pushes herself to standing, rights her dress, checks her hair to make sure it isn’t mussed. She is buzzing pleasantly even though her smalls are soaked and uncomfortable; she is otherwise calm. “You are, for now.”

“Yes,” agrees Cullen as he pulls his glove back on, “but you are only in check.”

She picks up her shoes. Aeveth must be focused now on Gaspard, on evading his proposal, on making him doubt his reading of her. She must determine all the possible scenarios that could happen, make it so that the outcome she wants is an absolute certainty. She turns back towards the palace proper. She can see someone standing on the balcony.

“Only in check, Commander.” She begins to walk off.

Behind her, in an undertone: “Checkmate soon, Inquisitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments please, they fuel me!
> 
> Art by [DrennTrev.](http://drenntrev.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW NSFW NSFW SUPER NSFW

Frustration.

Cullen watches Aeveth leave, her dress glowing in the moonlight. He makes a fist, exhales deliberately, shunts away the desire to chase after her, Orlesians be damned, and crush her lips under his.

He can taste her in his mouth, and it does nothing to help his current state. Cullen is almost dizzy with how hard he is, is lightheaded with how much he wants her. Instead, he walks over to the fountain and takes a seat awkwardly on the rim of it, pulling off his other glove, letting his fingers trail back and forth in the clear water. He needs to cool down, and fast.

But the vision of Gaspard and Aeveth won’t leave him. Cullen groans, beats his fist into his knee, and tries not to think of how close Gaspard was to her, how he was encroaching flagrantly in a space Cullen considers his alone. He remembers Gaspard’s lips almost touching her ear, her mouth opening, her eyes finding his - and Maker help him, she was vulnerable in that second, right before she looked away.

That is the crux of it, right there. Cullen doesn’t consider himself particularly jealous or possessive; despite the strain between them, Cullen knows that Aeveth loves him. But he can read her now, her every little movement and gesture, the quicksilver flit of emotions over her face, and in that moment she had wanted him, needed him, and he could not respond.

Frustration. Bleak, infuriating, impotent frustration.

Cullen stands, shaking the water off his hand. When it is dry, he puts his glove back on and begins walking through the garden, heading for the steps that will take him back into the Winter Palace, back into the Game, back to where it is more important that he be Commander Cullen, and not just Cullen.

Dorian is waiting for him on the balcony when he crests the top of the stairs. “Thank the Maker you’ve returned,” he says, and Cullen almost laughs at the way Dorian is posing, the light of the moon illuminating perfectly the height of his jacket’s collar with its multicolor embroidery, the oil slick sheen of the peacock feathers curling around the the mask. The entire thing is a peacock in profile, the head and neck of it rising proudly above his left eye, the tail of it swooping around, ending in a spray of miniature feathers around the bottom right. Cullen can see the fine stitching of wings over the nose bridge. They gleam, the gold thread picking up the light.

“My apologies for being gone so long. I needed to clear my head.” Cullen comes face to face with the other man, putting his hands behind his back, straightening up.

“Oh, is that the euphemism we are using tonight? Very well.” Dorian’s teeth are very white when he smiles.

Cullen laughs then, and feels his heart lighten. “Thank you, Dorian.”

“Think nothing of it. I understand you are beside yourself with anticipation when it comes to dancing.” Dorian’s smile takes on a conniving element. “You have not danced all night, Commander, and there is a long line.”

“Andraste preserve me. I have two left feet, Dorian.”

“Rubbish, Cullen. I have seen you drilling with the Chargers.” A pause. Then, softer, “Though I must be honest with you, I was not watching your footwork.”

That elicits another laugh from Cullen, a belly laugh, a good laugh. “I pray that no one else watches my footwork either.”

They re-enter the ballroom. Aeveth is once again on the dance floor, in the arms of one of her suitors. With a sigh, Cullen descends the steps. Josephine is standing by the floor with her hand to her face, giggling, the silver ribbons wound into her hair shaking slightly. “Lady Montilyet,” Cullen says with a smile, inclining his head at the ladies grouped around her. “I hope I am not interrupting. Might you care to dance?”

“Commander!” Josie exclaims. “I thought you’d never ask!” Josephine’s eyes are warm through the midnight blue of her mask, which is feathered all around in silver and dotted with crystals in the shape of a constellation. Silver stitching connects them across its expanse: it’s Bellitanus, the Maiden, and it is wholly appropriate for her. The mask is a match for the deep blue of her gown, strapless and shoulder-baring. As she moves, the material shimmers, and Cullen can see an underlayer of silver, and the hundreds of tiny crystal beads sewn into the garment.

Cullen extends his hand; Josie takes it, and he leads her onto the floor. _Josie is comfortable to be with_ , he thinks as they place hands on one another and wait for the musicians to begin. She is comfortable and knowing, and as they take their first steps she says, “Are you all right, Cullen?”

“I am not entirely sure, Josie.” He leads her, pushing lightly against her waist. Josephine executes the turn perfectly and returns, their hands clasping back together.

She smiles. “I trust you had a productive meeting with the Inquisitor.”

Cullen flushes, and hopes Josie doesn’t see it. “Has she spoken to you already?”

“We spoke briefly, yes. She kept me apprised of the situation.” She turns again, and makes it look as if it’s his doing. “Stay the course, Commander. I know this is not easy for any of us. The Inquisitor walks a fine line. Be warned: Gaspard may come to you.”

Cullen blinks. “What for? I haven’t anything to say to him.” As for anything to do, well. Swords were prohibited in the ballroom. Cullen now understands why on a deeper, more personal level.

“Probably just small talk, for appearances. Have a care, Commander. That one gives no quarter.”

The dance finishes; he and Josephine bow to each other. He smiles through his unease, and goes to find another partner.

*** *** ***

Gaspard approaches him towards the end of the evening, when Cullen is resting his feet.

The dancing has made the night go faster, he’ll allow. Finding a new partner every few minutes has cut down on the amount of light chatter he’s forced to abide from any given person, and for that Cullen is grateful. What glimpses he can catch of Aeveth are brief and in passing, with no opportunity to do anything but get out of each other’s way.

Cullen hopes that his participation in the ball has been satisfactory, and that he has performed admirably enough to keep the Inquisition from falling into disgrace.

“Enjoying the ball, Commander?”

Gaspard’s voice is smooth brandy poured over sandpaper, his manner of speaking bordering on unctuous, tempered by the bass rasp at the ends of his words. Cullen immediately decides he dislikes the man. “I have passed the time pleasantly, your Highness.”

The grand duke chuckles. “You have been quite busy, from what I have seen.”

“You cannot imagine, your Highness. I wonder how my feet have not quit the field out of protest.”

Gaspard chuckles again, burrlike. “I am an old soldier, and even I am a bit fearful of the dance floor. But there are only a few dances left. The campaign is about to be finished.”

Cullen almost says, “Thank the Maker,” but he stops himself. “If your feet feel anything like mine, your Highness, then you will understand I look forward to the relief.”

“Imagine how the women must feel, in those shoes.” Gaspard glances towards the ballroom floor, and Cullen thinks he is looking at Aeveth. He keeps his eyes firmly on the grand duke. “They are made of sterner stuff than we are. We are here resting, while others have barely ceased dancing all night.” There is a pause as Gaspard returns his attention to Cullen. “I find myself in admiration of you, however. You have danced with most everyone tonight. Truly an effort.”

“Thank you, your Highness. I have tried my best, for courtesy’s sake.”

“Courtesy? And yet you have not danced with the Inquisitor. By any measure, she should have been one of your first partners.” Gaspard’s head tilts. 

Cullen recalls Josie’s words. “I am afraid I missed the opportunity to be on her dance card, Highness.”

“Bullshit, Commander. You can cut in at any time, and no one would say anything.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “I believe in propriety. Your Highness. I would not interfere.”

“I see,” Gaspard says musingly. “Then it is true?”

Cullen tries to keep the annoyance from his voice, knowing that Gaspard has yet to dance with Aeveth again. “I’m afraid I do not follow, Highness. Being Fereldan.”

Gaspard grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, I find that you people tend not to see the subtleties in things. Never mind. It matters not. If you will pardon me, Commander, I am called to the field once more. Aeveth is an exquisite woman, and it would not do to upset her.”

Cullen barely makes it to his feet to bow before Gaspard’s back is turned. As the grand duke nears the floor, a collective gasp rises from the ballroom, and the music stops. Alarmed, Cullen stands, looks towards the musicians.

Leliana is speaking to one of the them, and it’s clear from her body language that she is preparing to sing. _She never sings,_ Cullen thinks. _This is a message. From Aeveth. For Gaspard? The timing cannot be coincidental._

“By all means, please continue to dance!” Leliana’s voice rings out across the ballroom floor, loud yet still lilting and charming. “Maestro, if you please?”

Cullen watches as the musicians prepare their instruments. On the floor, Aeveth and Gaspard are already together; she is facing him, but talking to the grand duke.

The music starts, and Leliana begins to sing. It’s a song Cullen is only familiar with in passing, a tale of misinterpretation between two kings that leads to ruin. 

Slowly, a smile spreads across Aeveth’s face.

*** *** ***

_“Aeveth is an exquisite woman, and it would not do to upset her.”_

Cullen grits his teeth when he remembers Gaspard’s casual use of her name. It’s petty. It’s petty, Cullen knows, but he can’t help it. It bothers him that Gaspard would be so familiar and complimentary to a woman who is likely half his age, a woman who could be his daughter. _“Aeveth is an exquisite woman,”_ and Cullen can feel his eyebrows drawing together, forming the line between them that Aeveth always smoothes away. He tells himself to stop thinking about trivial matters, but his mind won’t let it go, won’t stop bringing up the image of Gaspard so intimately close to Aeveth, won’t stop replaying his last words with her name flowing out so naturally.

“Commander?” Aeveth looks up at him, questioning.

They are almost back to their suite. It’s late, but Aeveth had wanted to leave the ball the second after Celene and Briala had gone, had wanted to skip the festivities afterwards. She is walking next to him gingerly, a hand holding her skirts up, shoes dangling from the other. Cullen can’t help but think of the way they had dropped from her slackening fingers earlier that night. He rubs the fingers of his right hand against each other.

“Commander?” Aeveth asks again, more forcefully this time. “Is there something troubling you?”

Cullen unlocks the doors to their suite and opens them, waits for Aeveth to enter first. Inside it is dim, a few candelabras lit in the center of the salon, and half the tapers in the chandelier. All is quiet; it seems the servants are gone.

 _Perfect,_ he thinks. He shuts the door behind them, turns the lock.

“Commander.” Aeveth’s head angles slightly to the side. “Are you all right?”

“We’re alone, Aeveth.” 

She rolls her eyes at him. “Without Sera and Bull to check, I doubt we are ever truly alone, Commander.”

“Could you please stop that?” Suddenly Cullen is tired, so tired. “The ball is finished. The treaties are signed. I’m ready to go home.”

Aeveth tosses her shoes aside. “I am too, but one does not act as if the game is won before it is finished.” Her eyes flick up to him, almost black in the murky light. “Commander. Of all things, you should know this.”

He almost hisses. “Aeveth. Please.”

Her eyebrows draw down; he can see the movement behind her lacy mask. “Fine. Cullen. What happened to the man who pulled it together at the ball? I need him.”

Cullen’s lips flatten. “Aeveth. Do you remember what I said to you earlier this afternoon?” 

She nods once after a moment. 

“My love, you are about to go too far.”

She’s angry now, her eyes flashing, her upper body stiffening. She draws herself up, imperious. “Cullen, I just - there are people in the _walls_ , Cullen, why can’t you - “ Aeveth stops herself, makes a noise of frustration.

Cullen grabs her by the hand then, and tows her down the hall to her rooms.

“Let _go,_ Cullen, have you lost your mind?!” Aeveth plucks at his hand, stumbles over the hem of her dress. “Cullen, stop!”

He throws open the door to her room, but lets go before he stalks inside. He yanks his gloves off, slapping them down upon the little table by the door; he finds a match, sparks it to life, and takes a few precious, calming minutes to light all the candles in the room. When he’s finished, he turns to her. She is glaring at him, her arms folded across her chest.

“Shut the door, please.”

Aeveth reaches out one hand, her palm curving around the heavy wood, and flicks her wrist. The door slams loudly. She keeps her eyes on him the entire time. “Was there something you wanted to say?”

Cullen breathes hard, rakes a hand through his hair, catches his fingers on his mask. With a growl he yanks it off and throws it across the room. He closes his eyes briefly then, tries to push down the emotions that are threatening to spill out of control. “I just...don’t want you to be _her_ when you’re with me.”

“I have to be, when we’re here. You know this.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, then looks to the side, uncertain. “I do. And yet…”

He doesn’t remember closing the distance to her, only that it closes. She doesn’t fight him when his body presses against hers, doesn’t make any sounds of protest or push him away when he cups her face and slants his lips across hers. The edges of her mask poke into his nose and cheekbone but Cullen doesn’t care, he has wanted to kiss her like this the entire time he’s been in Orlais. He conquers her like this, opens her mouth with his and meets her tongue, kisses her resistance down, kisses her until the first bits of the Inquisitor begin to fall away.

“Cullen!” she gasps when he breaks to draw air. “Cull -”

He silences her with his mouth. She moans then, responding to him, responding as she ever does to him, pushing her breasts against him, twining her arms around his chest and shoulders, fingers touching the back of his head, threading into his hair. Maker _take_ the Inquisitor, he thinks, she can bloody sod right off. He wants Aeveth.

Aeveth, who helps out around Skyhold by doing the most mundane tasks.

Aeveth, who gives all of herself for the things she believes in, and holds nothing back.

Aeveth, whose smile he misses seeing first thing in the morning.

Cullen vows to find her beneath the Inquisitor’s layers.

The mask, he decides, that’s first. Cullen leans back, his fingers following the contour of the satin ribbon that encircles her head. Aeveth’s shoulders relax and her head falls back; Cullen smiles at it, remembering their night among the flowers, knowing that she will forever react this way when he strokes her hair. He loosens the ribbon, then holds the mask carefully between his fingers, lifting it off her face.

His breath stops. She’s beautiful looking up at him, her cheeks flushed, the largeness of her eyes enhanced by the heavy lining of kohl. “Cullen,” she whispers, and in the stillness of the moment he can only answer with a quiet hum. “I promised I’d tell you when everything was set. Gaspard -”

“No,” he growls, annoyance flaring.

“But -”

“ _No,_ ” he growls again, more vehemently this time. Maker, if he went another hundred years without hearing his name again, it would be too soon. “Later. For now, this.” He kisses her again, flinging the mask carelessly away. It lands on the floor with a metallic _tink_ that is almost covered by the sound of heavy breaths, of lips meeting and parting, of Aeveth’s moans when Cullen’s tongue touches that spot on her neck.

“Ah,” she sighs, and in hearing that little noise, so intimate and personal, Cullen loses his composure. The suitors, the erasure of their relationship, Gaspard’s behavior, they all combine to unleash in him a ferocity he didn’t know he had, a sense of possession that makes him ache with how much he wants to claim her. “Cullen!” she cries out when his thumbs press into her neck, beneath her jaw, baring her throat. He kisses her there fiercely, lips and tongue traversing her skin, hitting every tender spot, every little secret place that only he knows will result in her jaw going slack, the air venting in and out of her mouth.

Cullen feels Aeveth’s hands on him, fingers digging into his coat, seeking the closures that hold it together. He pushes them away, spins her around instead, kisses the back of her neck. She shudders in his arms, a cry working its way free from her lips, and Cullen wonders why he doesn’t do this more often, why he doesn’t just face her away and grip her hair and pull her head to the side and set his lips upon her and wring all the sound from her throat.

And then he wonders why the dress she’s wearing has so many closures, why the expedition of his palms down the planes of her back has to be halted by an infuriating line of hooks and eyes. There is no way, Cullen determines, that he is going to take the time to undo them all. His hands close around the back neckline, one on each side of the line of hooks.

“Cullen, no don’t - !”

Muscles bunch as Cullen pulls his hands apart, and the hooks give way in a series of dull pops. Aeveth’s gasp cuts through the air, but Cullen just repositions his hands and pulls again, keeps pulling until he hears the _zzzzip_ of cloth tearing, gets his fingers on her bare shoulders and sweeps the dress off of her, carrying it on the backs of his hands as his palms skim down her arms.

Aeveth whips herself around, and Maker, she is furious. “I _liked_ that dress!” she spits at him, and Cullen can’t help himself, he has to laugh. She only grows more incensed when he does. “Maferath’s wrinkly ballsack, Cullen, what is so funny?!”

He kisses her, hands going to her face, thumbs resting at the corners of her eyes. He feels something smudging beneath; when he pulls away, the kohl is a wide smear from her eye to her temple. He likes it. 

“You’re mad at me over a dress.” He kisses her again, and the swift breath she takes through her nose is a cool breeze against his skin. “I can handle that.” The simplicity of it is refreshing, and at that Cullen feels his own jealousy and bad humor draining from him, leaving only his desire for her, hot and pulsing in his groin.

Aeveth snarls, galled, and affixes her hands to his collar. She pulls, but only the top few hooks release themselves. “For _fuck’s_ sake!” she yells, and Cullen laughs again, reaching up, unhooking the closures of his jacket swiftly. Aeveth busies herself with untying the sash around his waist. It comes off easily, and when she sees that he’s still grinning, she snaps it against his chest. “Not funny.”

“My love,” he says to her, leaning forward to kiss her. She evades him. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not talking to you,” she grumbles.

“It’s not your talking I want to hear,” he says to her in _that_ voice.

Cullen has the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen and her lips part; goosebumps pebble her skin. Cullen kisses her and picks her up, carries her over to the bed and lays her down on it, shrugs out of his coat. He pulls his shirt over his head, mussing his hair, leaves it alone to unlace his boots and breeches. Aeveth watches him undress, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, but when Cullen grins at her she resolutely turns her nose up and looks away, crossing her arms.

This game, he can play.

He sits down on the bed behind her, letting his forefinger trace the contour of her neck and shoulders. “Aeveth,” he murmurs to her, kissing the back of her neck lightly, finding the line of her vertebrae with his knuckle and following it from start to finish, “my love, you’re right. There are probably people listening.” His lips find that place behind her ear; he slides his hands beneath her flimsy chest band, lets the weight of her breasts settle into his palms. “I want them to hear you,” he breathes, and pushes his thumbs over her nipples.

She gasps, and Cullen feels it in his hands.

“I want them to hear what I can do to you,” he says next, squeezing her, taking her earlobe gently between his teeth and exhaling softly. Aeveth shivers delightfully, and he touches the tip of his tongue to her neck, flicks it up. “I want you to show them how you sound in the library.”

Aeveth’s jaw clenches then, the muscles of her stomach tightening, and Cullen knows she is fighting it, fighting the moan that is trying to escape. She reaches back, and this time she’s the one who grips his hair, pulling his head down, pressing his teeth against her skin. His lips scrape against her shoulder when he smiles; he bites her softly, just a nip.

And then he’s bending her forward, his tongue following the same path that his knuckle did earlier, one hand on the bedsheets to hold himself up, the other still cupped around her breast. “Maker,” Cullen mutters, taking the band of her smalls in his teeth, tugging it down a little before releasing it. Reluctantly, he removes his hand from her, hooks a finger into the aforementioned band, and with a quick jerk, pulls them off her hips, guides them off her legs. His hand brushes against the juncture between her thighs.

“Wet this whole time?” Cullen leaves a kiss on the deliciously rounded part of her hip, knows Aeveth won’t answer. He runs a hand over the curves of her ass. “Get a pillow, Aeveth.”

He watches the slow expansion of her ribs when she realizes what he means to do, can almost feel the air kindle around her in her excitement. Aeveth flips the covers back, revealing more pillows than a person can ever hope to use. She gives him two, keeps a third for herself; she places it under her elbows, lifts herself for him, waits for him to prop her up.

Cullen rises to his knees, gets the pillows underneath her, leans over her, his chest touching her back. “I love you,” he whispers to her as he rubs up against her, fits his length against her, rolls his hips so she can feel how hard he is. There is something, a whimper perhaps. Cullen grins and moves his hips just a tad, and the tip of his cock touches her entrance. She parts easily around him.

Another maybe-sound, slightly louder this time.

He feels her stretch around him when he enters her, pushing into her bit by bit, her body swallowing up his length readily. Maker, but she is amazing, just tight enough, and Cullen has to hold back, has to keep himself from slamming into her and ending it in a few short strokes. He groans when he is fully seated inside her, groans again when she clenches around him purposely. “Aeveth,” he rasps, pulling himself out halfway, looking down, seeing the sheen of her slick on him. He thrusts forward, hilting himself. She times it better this time, clenching around him again, and Cullen feels sweat springing up on his shoulders, his moan choking off.

The next thrusts have Cullen settling into a rhythm, are each deep enough to make her breasts sway. Aeveth whines, cuts herself off, slams her hand on the bed. She fists the duvet, shoves a wad of it into her mouth, bites down. Cullen sees her glare then, head and shoulders turned so that she can narrow her eyes at him, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that she will not give him the pleasure of hearing her vocalizations, will keep herself silent and angry. No matter, he thinks, pulling her hips smartly against his own. Her fingers tighten, white-knuckled. He grins ferally, does it again but harder, faster, deeper, his hipbones slapping against her ass.

Aeveth’s wail leaks out from the covers, escapes little by little into the air of the bedroom. “Yes, like that,” Cullen tells her, pulsing into her faster, feeling his pleasure begin to crest. “Come for me, darling,” and he has to close his eyes and moan, give up trying to hold his orgasm back. Aeveth’s cries are continuous, interrupted by yelps every time she receives his cock. Her arms give way, and she falls to the bed, fingers coiling into the pillow. 

Faster and faster; he’s been thinking about this for weeks, dreaming about this exact thing, fantasizing about how thoroughly he can stroke into her center, how she would be at his mercy. He’s been denied constantly by the machinations of the Game, and Cullen harnesses those negative feelings in him, drives into her hard, Maker, he just _fucks_ her, grinds her body against the covers of the bed, jams himself inside her, the sounds of their coupling loud in the room.

He knows it’s all over when she pushes back against him, meeting him with the same power, the same force. Cullen takes a breath, and another and another, moans, guttural, as he tightens and comes, flooding her with spurts of his seed. Aeveth keens and convulses, ripples around him, spits her gag out and sobs out her pleasure. The sight of her body undulating before him - his fault, he gladly takes the blame - serves only to make him come harder. Cullen ruts against her until her cries grow softer, and in every pound of his hips he can feel how full she is, how their combined fluids are being forced out of her.

They are both shaking when Cullen withdraws, collapsing in a sweaty heap next to her. Aeveth groans and lifts her hips just high enough to move the pillows, which she chucks weakly off the bed. Without a word, she shifts her clean pillow over so that they can share it. Cullen kisses her on the forehead, then stares into her eyes, stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Maker,” he says finally. 

She smiles, but does not laugh. “Nothing can beat the library, Cullen,” she whispers.

He tilts his head from side to side, considering. “You’re right,” he concedes eventually, and kisses her on the nose.

With a sigh Aeveth levers herself up and climbs carefully off the bed. Cullen watches her hobble to the washroom, a sense of pride coming over him. He hears the squeak of the faucet and the rush of water. Exhausted, he closes his eyes and drifts.

“Cullen.” Fingers caress his cheek tenderly. He opens his eyes blearily, smiles when he sees her. “Your turn. And then we need to have that talk I promised. It’s later, now.”

“It can’t wait until the morning?” He extends an arm and she clasps it, pulling him up to sitting. He stands and stretches, takes the towel she hands him.

Aeveth shakes her head, looking worried. “I’m afraid it can’t, Cullen. Go wash up.”

Cullen goes into the washroom, where the water is still running, wets a hand towel and gives himself a fast but thorough sponge bath, wincing when he gets to certain parts. The high of sex begins to wear off as he works, and soon he is dreading leaving the washroom. He reaches for the faucet to turn it off.

“Don’t.” Aeveth’s hand covers his; she is standing at his side. “Cullen, I need you to listen and not say anything until I’m done. Please?”

He nods reluctantly. “What is it?”

“It’s about Gaspard. I wanted to tell you sooner, but...it wasn’t a wise decision until now.” Her eyes are big and liquid, enhanced by the smudged kohl. “The day of the negotiations, Gaspard pulled me aside. It was after everything had been signed. Cullen, he proposed to me.”

His breath, growing faster, whistles between his teeth. “And you told him no?”

He can tell that it takes her a great amount of effort to meet his eyes. “I haven’t said yes or no yet.”

“Aeveth, no,” Cullen says, then louder, “no! You’re going to tell him no. Maker, how could you even consider saying yes?”

She shrugs, one-shouldered. “He has offered the Inquisition a solution to its problems, but at a price. Tactically, it’s sound to say yes.”

“No!” Cullen bursts out. Heat is spreading in his chest; his ears are burning. “Aeveth, please, you’re going to say no, there will be no other discussion about it.”

“Of course I want to say no!” she cries. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? I can’t just tell him no, I need him to maneuver him into it, make him understand why it’s a terrible idea all around. I cannot say no until then, at the risk of backlash against us.”

A hare-brained idea comes to him then, the seed of it planted the night before. “Marry me,” he says hotly. “Marry me instead.”

“Cullen...” Her tone is rising, warning.

“You can’t marry him if you’re married to me first. Please, Aeveth. Marry me!” Cullen’s voice echoes off the tile of the washroom; he doesn’t realize he’s been shouting until then.

Aeveth matches his emotions, meets them as she always does. Push and pull, balance and counterbalance, equal and opposite reactions, that’s their relationship, has always been. Aeveth’s eyes blaze. “Cullen Stanton _fucking_ Rutherford, are you proposing to me?!”

“Yes!” he roars at her, taking a step forward.

She backs away a step, but refuses to retreat further, holds the line. “I cannot _believe_ your temerity!” she roars back. “No! Maker take you, no I will not, not like this! You are - “ Aeveth clamps her lips shut around her words, but her fury is evident in her dangerously narrowed eyes, the way her nostrils flare. “Out, before this all becomes regrettable. Out!”

This time Cullen does not kiss her; this time, rejected and cut to the quick, he gathers himself and his hurt, dressing briskly in the dense, uncomfortable stillness. Aeveth’s eyes, black and stormy, follow him as he leaves her room, and her silence is icy and chilling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a giant chapter, wasn't it?! Penny for your thoughts.


	18. Chapter 18

When he wakes, it’s always the taste he notices first.

Sour. Rank. Fuzzy, a bit, front-loaded with bad, imbalanced humor, bilious, staleness gone past stale. No matter how many times he wakes up like this, no matter how many times he’s brushed his teeth prior to slithering abed, no matter how much water he drinks to try to balance things out, it’s the taste that hits him first.

And then the recollection of how many times he’s gotten in and out of bed, pale dreams fluttering through his sleep, memories of bending over the chamberpot half-formed in his mind.

And the knowledge that he never drinks enough water because he doesn’t give a shit about being sober, not when he’s like this.

Dorian pushes the covers aside and rotates himself out of bed. He’s alone this morning, or perhaps it’s afternoon. He finds his slippers by feeling about with his toes, stands, then immediately sits back down. The world tilts slightly, wobbles a bit. He puts a hand to his head.

It’s definitely morning, because he’s still drunk.

Dorian tries standing a second time, with better results. He shuffles unsteadily over to the washroom, gets his hands in the basin of water, scoops some of it into his mouth. He swishes, then makes a face. The water is too foul to swallow. He spits it out, grimacing.

He looks into the mirror, decides that bedhead makes him look rogueish. The mustache, though, it cannot be anything short of spectacular. So Dorian licks his finger and smoothes the hairs back into place as best he can. It’ll do, he tells himself. It’ll do. He has more pressing matters on his mind.

The bottle of maaras-lok is sadly empty when he picks it up, but Dorian puts it to his lips and leans backwards anyway. He staggers and almost loses his balance, but then the last remaining drops of the liquor roll into his mouth, and he decides it was probably worth it. He sets it down with a loud clatter and heads for the door to the bedroom, the soles of his slippers slapping against the floor.

Iron Bull is up already, and from the looks of it has been up for some time. Alcohol affects the Qunari differently, and Bull drank less usual last night, if Dorian’s memory serves. The Qunari is packing a trunk, various personal items laid out neatly in rows across the floor. He looks up when Dorian shuts the door.

“Ah, shit. You’re still drunk.”

“And it’s a lovely feeling, Bull. Don’t rain on my parade. Or rather, do; if you could make the raindrops absinthe, I would much appreciate it.”

Bull is not amused. “The party’s over. It’s time to come down, Dorian.”

“Never. Where is the wine?” He walks tipsily over to the sideboard and peers around.

“We don’t have any.” Bull stands up suddenly. Dorian is startled, for some reason, at his heft and width. “We had our fun last night. Now it’s time to come down, and get to work. The boss left us orders to start packing up.”

“Yes, _mother,_ ” Dorian snits at him. He knows immediately it’s the wrong move, even through the wavering haze of his drunkenness.

“Dorian.” Bull’s voice is dangerously low. He approaches, rests two large hands on Dorian’s shoulders. “I know how much this place reminds you of home. You might have been able to fool Aeveth into thinking you’re fine, but not me. Get it together for just a bit longer. Sober up at the very least.”

They stare into each other’s eyes for a long, hanging moment.

With a sigh, Dorian relents. “Fine,” he says, fighting the desire to find another bottle and keep his buzz going, keep the amount of alcohol in his blood at a constant, happy level, a constant, devil-may-care level. “I will make myself presentable, and drink some water.” Maker help him, though. Water is the wrong clear liquid.

He goes back into the room and dresses, then spends time painstakingly styling his hair in the mirror. As he does, he counts the minutes in a backwards fashion, retrograde, the warm giddiness of his high vanishing bit by bit. Sobriety is a slow, solid thing, grinding his world back down to a steadiness he can navigate on his own two feet, and Dorian knows that when he exits the washroom, the world will no longer separate into double vision when he shakes his head.

It’s unfortunate. Yet necessary.

Iron Bull is no longer in the salon when Dorian comes back out. Dorian doesn’t go looking for him but crosses the hall instead, lets himself into the suite, and is immediately surrounded by activity. Elven servants bustle hither and thither, and at the eye of it stands Cullen, arms folded, supervising, looking surlier than Dorian has seen him in a while.

“Playing the role of steward today, are we?” Dorian flags down a servant, orders her to bring water.

Cullen glances at him briefly. “I prefer to think of it as coordinating task forces.”

“She put you up to this, didn’t she?” The elven servant returns with a tall glass, three-quarters full. Dorian holds his hand open, expectant, and she places it against his palm. He doesn’t look at her. “I’ll wager it’s better than dancing half the night.”

Cullen accepts a piece of paper and a quill from another servant, frowns at them, signs the bottom of the sheet. He hands them back, then re-folds his arms over his chest. “I do what the Inquisitor asks of me, to the best of my ability,” he says.

Dorian snorts, bites back a laugh. “So do we all, Cullen. So do we all.” 

He stands with Cullen for a while, observing the process. Dorian has never had to do anything like this; he has either traveled alone and taken care of his own affairs, or had a steward to oversee things. Runners arrive with notes often needing Cullen’s signature, and Dorian watches as Cullen reads over lists, gives orders, does sums in his head, and signs off on expenses with a grim look upon his face. 

“I never knew the Inquisition had coffers this deep,” Dorian says after a particularly large bill has been paid.

Cullen sighs for the umpteenth time. “We won’t, after this. That was the jeweler’s messenger with a note for the masks. Andraste’s flaming sword.”

“At least we get to keep them!” Dorian says brightly. He is rather fond of his little collection.

“Don’t be so sure,” Cullen drawls. “We have yet to receive Thierry’s chit. If you thought this one was extravagant…”

“I won’t hear any blasphemy against him,” Dorian declares. “He is worth every last bit of gold we can produce.”

“Agreed,” Josephine chimes in, walking briskly through the double doors, which have been propped open. “Commander, I have need of your signature on these.” The ambassador indicates the sheaf of papers held in her arm.

Dorian’s head cocks to the side. “What are those?”

“My deepest regrets,” Cullen says, going to the dining table and taking a seat. “I have been forbidden to take a wife by the Inquisitor herself so long as I hold this position.” There’s a pause as Cullen takes the papers and sets them down onto the table. He inks a quill carefully.

“Speaking of,” Dorian says, “where is she?”

“She scheduled breakfast with Grand Duke Gaspard this morning,” Josephine responds, picking up the first signed letter and blowing on the fresh ink. “She left some time ago.”

Dorian hears Cullen’s quiet grunt, followed by the sound of air being exhaled forcibly through the nose. “A private breakfast? With the grand duke?” The gears begin to turn in Dorian’s head. In all likelihood the Inquisition as a whole will be seen off in an official capacity by the entire royal party, so there has to be a different reason for a private audience with the grand duke. “Was there a last-minute negotiation?”

“You could say that,” Cullen says tightly.

“The grand duke has made a bid for the Inquisitor’s hand in marriage,” Josephine says calmly, with a look at Cullen. “She has gone to give her answer.”

Dorian coughs, chokes on his water, puts the glass down on the table with a rattle, the liquid sloshing onto his hand. “Your pardon,” he says in disbelief after regaining his breath. “That was, ah, unexpected. Do we know what her answer will be?” Dorian deliberately does not look at Cullen, does not see the man’s fingers tightening upon the shaft of the quill, doesn’t hear the angry scrapings of the point against paper. _Poor Cullen,_ Dorian thinks, his chest aching for his friend. _As if he doesn’t hate being here enough already._

“The Inquisitor had not made it clear before she left.” She waits for Cullen to place the next letter in her hand. “Hopefully we shall find out soon. However, given the preparations currently being made, I think her answer will not be surprising.”

 _It’s a no then,_ Dorian thinks, sighing in relief. He puts a hand to his forehead and thanks the Maker. Nothing is ever out of the realm of possibility, he knows, especially when it comes to Aeveth and the Game. She would have considered all the angles, played out the various scenarios that would have resulted from saying yes; she would have considered _all_ angles, including those with friends and loved ones absent.

Dorian is glad she is saying no, because if she were saying yes, no one in the Inquisition would be able to hold Cullen back.

A commotion breaks Dorian from his thoughts. He hears voices from the hallway, faint but growing louder, and a familiar light tenor, Orlesian by accent, speaking above everyone else. “About that chit, Cullen,” Dorian says, grinning.

Cullen groans, fans out the remainder of the letters, signs them all quickly, and stands.

“Master Pavus!” Thierry enters, slipping around the elves bearing a train of trunks into the salon. 

“Good morning, Thierry,” Dorian greets him, smiling fondly. “Come to bless us with more of your finery?”

Thierry makes a noise of disgust. “Finery, bah! No, you cannot call it that. Simple travel garments, only fit for the dirt and dust of the road. I used what material I had left over. No, Master Pavus, I am here to help pack away the garments from the ball properly. Where is her Worship’s dress?”

Cullen makes a strangled noise and coughs suddenly, gloved hand going to his lips.

Dorian turns to the other man, narrows his eyes. He hadn’t been so drunk the night previous to forget who walked Aeveth back. “Cullen?”

“I imagine it is in her rooms,” Cullen says faintly, coloring.

“Is she not here at the moment?” Thierry inquires, and when Josie shakes her head no, he continues. “I shall go retrieve it, then.”

Dorian keeps his eyes on Cullen, seeing the other man’s face growing steadily redder. “Cullen…?”

“I have...nothing to say, Dorian.” He shifts under Dorian’s gaze. “I didn’t realize that Master Thierry would…”

A bloodcurdling scream interrupts Cullen then, followed by such lurid swearing that Dorian almost claps his hands over his ears. Thierry barrels out from the hallway, dress clutched in his hands, the beads on it clinking with every step. It’s obvious by the way the garment falls that it is irreparably damaged, ripped almost in half down the back. “Who?!” the tailor thunders, apoplectic. “What - who - _who did this?!”_

In a movement so synchronized that it might as well have been rehearsed, Dorian and Josephine turn their heads to look at Cullen.

Cullen, whose face is the shade of a ripe tomato.

Cullen, whose expression wars between complete embarrassment and smug pride.

Cullen, who meets Thierry’s eyes, and sets between them a challenge.

“Commander?!” the tailor fairly shrieks, shaking the dress at him. “My masterpiece! How could you, you great Fereldan oaf?! Why would you destroy my art in such a manner?!”

“Oh, I think the answer is obvious, is it not, Master Thierry?” And with that, Dorian begins to laugh, and does not stop. _Genius, she is a genius,_ Dorian thinks. _Such exquisite planning to be gone for just the perfect amount of time. The servants cannot possibly interrupt her meeting with salacious gossip, and if they do, the bulk of the talks will have already ended._

Cullen clears his throat, his face still flaming. All falls still as multiple pairs of eyes are trained upon him. Dorian notes that the commander, finally, is at the center of everyone’s attention. 

“Well, Commander?” Thierry demands. “What do you have to say for yourself, you thrice-damned cretin?” He shakes the dress at Cullen again. 

Cullen’s face is composed despite its color, neutral, almost blank. “Checkmate.”

Dorian explodes into uproarious laughter, falling against the table. Josephine joins him, her hand covering her mouth, her giggles pealing brightly in the air.

“What does that mean?” Thierry casts about, bewildered and indignant, but the servants only stare at him and shake their heads. “What does that mean?!”

Dorian laughs all the harder, until tears spring to his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *snickering* Let me know...what you think...


	19. Chapter 19

Aeveth stares down at the cup in front of her. It’s small, and in it sits a single egg, the muted brown of the shell contrasting with the cup’s porcelain white. It has been, by her estimation, twenty-five years since she has last eaten a soft-boiled egg, and she hopes she hasn’t forgotten how to crack one open.

It’s hilarious to her that her penultimate trial in Orlais is to crack an egg perfectly, and eat without dripping the yolk anywhere. Only in Orlais, she sighs to herself, picking up a butter knife. Unbidden, Aeveth is reminded of Josephine at Wicked Grace, the year prior. “Boldness!” the Antivan had declared, throwing three coppers onto the table.

Aeveth allows herself a small smile and taps the edge of the butter knife sharply against the shell. The hit is good, not too hard and not too soft, and the egg cracks perfectly along the straight edge of the knife. She taps twice more, just to lengthen the rift, then replaces the knife with her spoon so as to gently lift up the top. She sets it aside once it is clear, then reaches for the pinch bowls of pepper and coarse salt sitting by. She spills not a single grain when she seasons the egg, and not a drop of yolk falls to the crisp white linen when she brings the dipped end of the soldier to her mouth.

Across from her sits Gaspard, who cracks his egg with practiced efficiency, devouring the contents swiftly. They are breakfasting in a small solar adjoining his impressively large living suites, and the brightness of the morning sun, coupled with the riotous greenery surrounding them, serves to make the space cozy and intimate. Aeveth looks outside as she chews, taking in the scenery. Gaspard, of course, has a stunning view of the Winter Palace gardens.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, Aeveth?” Gaspard asks, wiping at his lips with a perfectly creased napkin. She can see the de Chalons crest embroidered onto the corner.

Aeveth nods once she has swallowed. “It more than lives up to expectations, Gaspard.” She, too, takes a sip of her tea, her eyes meeting Gaspard’s, unblinking. His gaze is cool from behind the silver of the three-quarters mask he favors.

“Excellent. You look a vision this morning, have I mentioned? So lovely that I feel I have once glimpsed you in a dream, like a sense of déjà vu.” His head tilts ever so slightly.

She is wearing the midnight blue riding skirts from the hunt outside the palace, coupled with the same crystal-encrusted silver mask. “I am flattered, your Highness,” Aeveth responds just as coolly, with the same tilt of the head. “If my humble attire serves to remind you of a past event, then truly I must be striking in it.”

Score a touch for her. They are about even, Aeveth surmises, picking up her teacup and sipping again, the creamy liquid pulling like hot satin between her lips. It has been a long time since anyone has been able to match her, let alone take advantage of her in this theater. It’s exciting.

Aeveth finds herself more than a little intrigued by this man, this would-be emperor of Orlais, this chevalier with a razor-sharp mind and an open hand extended her way. Even though she has come to him with her decision already made, Aeveth can’t help but think again about the possibilities. Gaspard has proposed to _her_ , the Inquisitor, and if that marriage ever happened, Aeveth can only begin to fathom the kind of power that would be available to her. As empress and Inquisitor she would topple Celene and Briala, control the eluvians, fold the Frostbacks into Orlais, strike at Ferelden through all the small places the Inquisition has claimed and held. As supreme empress and Inquisitor, with Gaspard at her side and chevaliers at her fingertips, she could unite all of Thedas as never before, could sit next to Cassandra and effect true change, lasting change. She could have a legacy stretching from the Western Approach to the Brecilian Forest.

All she has to do is say yes. All she has to do is give up her body for an heir, give up Cullen in her life.

In that moment Aeveth knows that one of these things is impossible. Without Cullen she can still go on, but to cede her body?

Never. Never again. After the Circle, never again.

A glass of innocent pink liquid, a single imprint of lips upon the rim. A scent, overly sweet; a taste, astringent, dry, a desiccant upon her tongue; tightness down the back of her throat, sandpapery burning down to her stomach; shaking, always the shaking.

_Deathroot, 3 parts, extracted._

She knows what she would do, if she were ever mad enough to let _that_ happen.

“Striking would be one way of putting it,” Gaspard says, and his voice re-centers Aeveth on the present, brings her back. A smile stretches his lips, curves them crescent-shaped. “Lovely. Noticeable. Eye-catching. Remarkable. I could come up with so many more, Aeveth, but I would bore you.” Gaspard leans forward, puts an elbow on the table, allows his forearm to rest against the surface and take some of his weight. “How is it possible that one such as you remains unpartnered?”

Aeveth gives him a steely look. “I fail to see how that is relevant currently, Gaspard.”

A single shrug of his shoulder. “I am Orlesian, Aeveth. That reaction was not feigned.”

“You wanted to know my answer yesterday,” Aeveth says, changing the subject abruptly. “I have it for you today, Gaspard.”

She reaches up behind her head, finds the ribbon of her mask. She pulls on the tie, and it unravels smoothly. The mask slips down her face; she closes her eyes, catches it in her hand. When she opens them, she sees that Gaspard has gone still, the teaspoon he’s holding frozen in the air above his cup.

“The answer,” she says softly, “is no.” Aeveth holds up a hand, kills the words in Gaspard’s throat, the words in that _voice_ , that Maker-taken _voice_. “Kindly let me explain myself.”

Aeveth puts her mask on the table. She is focused, a beam of light through a lens, ready to strike true, end it all. She feels a calm settling upon her like the charged silence before a warrior’s first swing, that wonderful hanging feeling when foresight and eerie clairvoyance can be achieved. This is her closing bid.

Her face smoothes, and she blinks once, slowly, like a great cat.

“I came to Orlais, as you know, to secure the future of the Inquisition. In that I believe you and I - and Celene and Briala - have come to a satisfactory accord. At the same time, I sought to make a match between the Inquisition and a landed noble for the purpose of gaining useful land.

“Here I must congratulate you, Gaspard, on your sense of timing, your ability to surprise. Had anyone asked me if I expected a marriage proposal from you, I would have said no. Asking me after the treaties were signed was a master stroke. I know you hate the Game, Gaspard, but you are a fine player. You’ve kept me on the brink the entire time I have been in your country. For that, I thank you.

“I cannot pretend and say I did not think about the possibilities of the match. In place of a deal, you offered me a gift. A chance to consolidate rule over southern Thedas. Power beyond my wildest dreams, and a kingdom of people to worship me. The Inquisition would want for nothing. I would want for nothing.”

Aeveth leans forward just a hair, taking the pause, letting a beat pass, two. 

“But the cost, Gaspard. I have no doubt that you and I could do great things. I almost regret that we are too far apart in life to make much of this relationship. I understand you, and you understand me. But. The cost.” She blinks again, tips her chin down to intensify her gaze, locked as it is with his. “The Inquisition needs to be a neutral party in all things. It cannot have an ulterior motive behind it. If I married you, Gaspard, you would move immediately to depose Celene and eliminate Briala. War would be on your borders before the close of the year. These are not probabilities, these are facts. Concrete events that would happen in the future.

“This would be inescapable even if I were to marry a lesser noble. I know how your system works, and if I had married myself to a middling count or marquis you would have called upon your right as his ruler - _my_ ruler - to use lands and men as you will. As _you_ will, not as I will, and not as the Inquisition wills.

“And thus: I cannot accept your proposal, for it is poisoned. I cannot accept any proposal from any noble of Orlais, for they are _all_ poisoned. The Inquisition yokes itself to no one, your Highness. And it never will.”

Aeveth sits back and places her hands in her lap. She watches Gaspard as he puts his spoon deliberately onto the table. There is a long, long silence. 

Aeveth decides to finish the rest of her breakfast.

Finally, “And the commander?”

She chews, swallows. “What of him, Gaspard?”

“You love him, do you not? The way you react, the leap of your breath, the quickening of your pulse when I say his name in your ear. You are his.” 

Aeveth remembers the stone scrape of Gaspard’s voice warm against her ear and her neck, and a shiver ripples down her spine, tracing electricity from vertebra to vertebra. She keeps her features unmoving, shakes her head, _tsks_. 

“Gaspard. You should know better. Feelings are nothing when it comes to the Game. Did you think I could not separate myself from them? Did you think I would play while emotional?” She chuckles. “Gaspard, you’re such an amusement.”

His jaw tightens underneath its layer of stubble, stays tight for seconds before it releases. “Truly a remarkable woman,” he says, expelling a loud breath. “Should you ever find someone, I wonder if he can even begin to _grasp_ the marvel that you are.”

The door opens suddenly at the far end of the room. An elven servant enters, feet pattering on the floor in a rush to reach Gaspard’s side. “What is the meaning of this?” Gaspard demands, his voice cracking the air. “We were not to be disturbed!”

“Your Highness!” the elf gasps out, bowing. As he straightens he angles close, whispers into Gaspard’s ear. The timing is perfection. The corners of Aeveth’s mouth turn up as she thinks of Thierry and his reaction to her dress.

Centimeter by centimeter, Gaspard’s mouth drops open in shock. Even his mask cannot hide the color of his anger, dull red spreading in a flush from his neck up to his cheeks. Aeveth smiles wider when she catches his glare. She weathers its heat, basks in it, lets it flow around her like desert sand blown around a granite slab.

Aeveth stands, picks up her mask, ties it back on.

“It has been...pleasure, your Highness,” she says, inclining her head, dipping into a shallow curtsy. The sound of her heels striking the floor echoes as she exits, a serene smile on her face.

_Cullen, it’s time to go home._


	20. Chapter 20

It is a three day trip from Halamshiral to Skyhold, but with their housecarls and wains, it will be at least four.

Four days, Cullen thinks, seated on his horse, watching the procession go by. Four days until they are back home, four days until he can regain control over his life. Just being out of the Winter Palace grounds is a relief. Already he feels more like himself, even if he is wearing a reinforced riding jacket of gray wool sewn in with leather, and Thierry’s ridiculous pants. Jodhpurs, Dorian called them. Cullen would rather be wearing solid, reliable armor.

“Ser!” A young soldier canters up to him, reining up elegantly. Piercing green eyes flash in a dark face when he salutes. “Reporting, ser.”

Cullen shifts in the saddle, sits forward to pat his horse’s neck. “Is the headcount finished?”

The soldier nods. “All accounted for, ser.”

“Thank you, Gavin. You may return to the van.”

Gavin salutes again and rides off. Cullen watches the former templar retreat until he reaches the head of the column. He slots himself in beside Aeveth, whose dappled horse is recognizable from any distance. She turns her head to the side as she acknowledges Gavin’s presence, and Cullen can see sunlight glinting off the silver of her mask.

Cullen waits for the train to pass, then links up with the rearguard. Today he is riding here in deference to Aeveth’s wishes, knowing that she is still upset with him, knowing that she needs time away from him. She could hardly stand to be in the same room as he that morning, had barely spoken to him while waiting for the servants to make her tea, only gave him half a nod and a perfunctory, “Commander.”

He can’t really blame her for it, either. Cullen stifles a groan as he remembers his words from the previous night. Idiocy, complete idiocy. He can’t find an explanation other than that in the heat of the moment, it seemed like a good idea, rather than a desperate one. As he replays the scene again in his mind, he sighs. _Maker._ No wonder she is still angry.

Everything, Cullen thinks, everything could have been better handled. He could have kept himself in check instead of let his emotions run roughshod over him. Cullen thinks himself logical and tactical, but there is something about Orlais that puts him on edge, erodes the wall between thought and feeling. Without that barrier, it seems, he is prone to saying stupid things.

Like yelling at Aeveth to marry him.

Andraste’s _tits,_ he’s an ass.

From Aeveth’s point of view - and here Cullen stops to chastise himself, scold himself for failing to take into consideration her thoughts and feelings more often - he must have looked to her as child whose toy had been stolen, upset at the taking, otherwise unconcerned over its value. Gaspard’s proposal had been the last straw, and Cullen had reacted poorly at the mere thought that something he didn’t even realize he wanted was going to be an impossibility.

Marriage. It isn’t something to which he’s given much thought, not when he has spent most of his life as a templar, and she a Circle mage. Idly, yes, as a young man with ideals and romantic dreams; after Kinloch Hold, the thought of it was absurd. Even being with Aeveth in the Inquisition he hasn’t thought of it often, has thought more of what might come after: a house, children. In passing, perhaps, _the Inquisitor, my wife_ instead of _the Inquisitor, my lover;_ during a conversation with Dagna the topic had come up. “So what do you call her?” the dwarf had said chirpily when she received his commission. “Your girlfriend?” She’d giggled then. “Your partner? Your...lover?”

_Maker’s breath_ , he’d thought. “I call her Aeveth.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

In all seriousness, however, after the events of Orlais, after seeing all the proposals, the dances, the way other men and even women had looked at her, after witnessing her brilliance and her devastation and her fiery will made manifest, Cullen knows that yes, he wants to marry her. To tell her in action and deed that he is hers, for as long as he draws breath. To be at her side and face together whatever unimaginable thing the world would throw at her next.

Cullen’s hands tighten on the reins; he shuts his eyes for a brief second. Maker, he’s in love, so irretrievably in love with this unreal woman, this person who is at once a legendary figure and of all things, a devious prankster. He’s in love with all of her, right down to her faults and the darkness only he has seen. He’s ready to take all of her, even the secrets he knows she holds away from him, willing to work out whatever problem might spring up between them just because he wants to be with her. Her, Aeveth, warm brown eyes, a series of giggles when she pokes fun at his dourness, a keen intellect and lover of puzzles, an acceptance of himself, history and damages together.

He just has to find a way to apologize to her first, and win her forgiveness.

They make good time that day, following the road as long as they can before turning southeast towards the foothills of the Frostbacks. Cullen glimpses her as they break for camp, passing in and out through the trees, leaves and twigs crackling beneath her boots as she strides through the forest. He is holding his bedroll, standing in front of his tent, when Dorian interrupts his train of thought.

“Cullen, if you stood still any longer I could have a sculptor make a fair likeness of you. Just go already.”

Cullen blinks, shakes himself. “What?”

“You’ve been staring at her for minutes now. She is not doing anything important at the moment. Go to her. Something happened between you two last night, and you need to resolve it.” Dorian takes Cullen’s bedroll from his arms. “I will do you a favor and put your things in your tent so that you may be unburdened when you - Cullen? Cullen, I’m still talking. Rude!”

Cullen is already five paces away, his eyes on Aeveth’s back. He quickens his steps, stretches out his legs, catches up to her without breaking into a run. “Aeveth,” he says, but she doesn’t turn around. “Aeveth?”

“Yes, Commander?” comes her answer finally.

“Walk with me?”

“I think not, Commander. The last time I walked with you…” A small smile.

He feels himself coloring. “I ah, promise it won’t end up like that again.” Maker, something had possessed him in that moment, made his mind race along paths he didn’t know existed, made him want her in a primal way, constrained, responsive to every miniscule movement of his fingers. Firmly, Cullen puts the thought from his mind. “Please, Aeveth.”

She turns her head to look at him over her shoulder, her chin lifting slightly so she can meet his eyes. In the dark of the forest her irises are deep and black; moonlight filters down through the canopy and reflects gently off her mask.

“All right,” she says softly, arm extending, gloved fingers slipping around his elbow, settling there. They walk in silence for a while until the noise of the camp fades and the light of the fires can no longer be seen. Aeveth lifts her hand, palm up, and a little shining sphere coalesces, solidifies into existence. It hovers by her shoulder as they walk, casting light onto the forest floor.

They stop when they reach a small clearing, the break in the leaves overhead just large enough to admit bright beams of moonlight. It’s a full moon, and the light pools on the forest floor, spills across it in liquid argent puddles, illuminates motes of dust in the air. They stand in one such beam, facing one another, and Cullen can feel Aeveth’s magic draining away, dissipating back into the Fade. The moonlight shines down on her at an angle, bleeds away color, makes her glow faintly silver anywhere it touches, deepens shadows to inky black anywhere it doesn’t. Aeveth stands and looks up at him, and she is a charcoal drawing in black and white, a living chiaroscuro painting, and Cullen has to remind himself to breathe.

Without thinking he reaches for her, moving slowly, and his fingers brush the edges of her mask. “You don’t need this anymore,” he murmurs to her.

“Would you believe,” Aeveth replies, “that I forgot it was on?”

He nods once. He isn’t surprised in the least. “May I…?”

Cullen feels her nod as a tiny movement, barely a dip of her head. He looks into her eyes then, fingertips skimming backwards, traveling along the length of satin ribbon until he finds the knot. The tie falls apart easily when he pulls; the mask slips crookedly; he catches it in his hand, takes it away, gasps quietly when she is revealed, her eyes and skin and lips caressed with the light of the heavens.

“That’s better,” he says. There are small lines in the corners of her eyes when she smiles. “Aeveth, I…” He swallows. “I wanted to apologize for last night. It was unfair of me, and...I should have trusted you, and...ah...what I’m trying to say is that I am a fool, and I’m sorry.”

Aeveth inhales slowly, sighs it out. “I was going to be angry with you, Cullen, but…” Her voice trails off, and her eyes drop, looking anywhere but him. He cants his head to the side, seeking them, waits for her to find him again. “I need to apologize also, Cullen. I devised this plot, but did not ask whether you were willing to be a part of it. I knew the ball made you uncomfortable last time, but I disregarded that information. A lot of the blame for what happened can be laid at my feet.”

He shakes his head. “You expected me to do my job. I balked, and kept balking. I should not need any rebuke to do what is demanded of me.” A look, rueful, from her. “And more than anything, I am sorry about how I… about what I said to you. I have no excuse for how I acted.” 

Maker, can he not say it? The way he feels now, he ought to. Cullen finds himself short of breath, winded at the idea of just discussing the possibility, his heart hammering hard in his chest, prickles racing over his skin. He swallows again, tells himself to keep eye contact, restrains himself from rubbing the back of his neck. “Aeveth,” he says, and Andraste help him the air is so close, so thick, charged and stifling all at once. “Might I try this again, some other time? Because I do. Want to ask. For your hand in marriage. Even knowing that you might say no.” _Oh, Maker. It’s out._

He watches her reaction, watches as her eyes widen and her lips part, hears the shock in her indrawn breath. She presses her lips together and they crinkle from it; she covers her mouth with a hand. “Cullen,” she says, her voice low and trembling, and Maker, he’s trembling too, afraid of what she might say next. “Oh, Cullen, what made you think I wouldn’t want to?”

Cullen’s breath leaves him in one great huff. Maker, he’s shaking. “The - the Inquisition, I thought - you are so dedicated to your work, and I didn’t want to be the one to distract you…”

Aeveth holds her mouth and chin with her hand, and the expression on her face is one of disbelief and tenderness. “My love, are we doing this again? Getting in each other’s way?” Her laugh is pure amazement. “We never even talked about it. I thought you wanted to, but you hadn’t said a word until last night.”

His head is spinning. Cullen closes his eyes for a moment just so he can process. “Does this mean...Maker’s breath, why are we…”

She laughs again, truly laughs this time, and there are tears in her eyes. “Stupid? Why are we so stupid? Maker, Cullen, why _are_ we so stupid?”

“I don’t know,” he says, and he holds himself so still then, folds his will about him like iron sheets so that he doesn’t just grab her and kiss her and ruin everything. “I love you,” he blurts out instead.

The leather of her glove skims against his cheek right before she rises on tiptoe to lean in and kiss him. “I love you too,” Aeveth whispers, “and you may of course ask me to marry you a second time. I might even say yes, as long as we can put it off until after this is all over.”

It shouldn’t stun him, but it does. “And if it’s never over?”

Aeveth’s expression firms. “Oh, I’ll end it if you ask me to marry you. I’m not going to be a spinster forever.”

Cullen snorts, but it becomes a laugh, a genuine, relaxing, tension-free laugh because the image of Aeveth in a sister’s habit when she’s so _wanton_ \- it’s too much. He laughs loudly and long, puts his arms around her, pulls her close. She takes a step, fitting herself into his space, melding herself to him in all the warm, familiar ways he’s been missing. His laugh dies away and he hugs her, wraps his entire self body and soul around her, around Aeveth who knows him like no one else, who he knows like no one else. Cullen embraces her and she embraces him back, and there’s just something so whole about it, about how they can be together like this, finding each other’s gaps, filling them in.

He isn’t sure if he kisses her first or if it’s the other way around, but there is a kiss, a heart-searing, aching, tight need of a kiss, a breath-stealing, dizzying rush of a kiss. Cullen kisses her until time stops, and Aeveth kisses him back in such a way as to set the universe spiraling, send him falling forever into the touch of her lips and the feel of her mouth joined to his. Like this, they belong together like this, and no matter what Cullen will fight for it, for _her._

They pull apart, the distance measured in the soft breaths that pass between them. The way she’s looking at him grips his heart, and Cullen sears the image into his memory, seizes it as his, vows to see it again and again, for years and years. “My love,” he says, “Aeveth, my love, you are…”

She places fingertips against his lips, shushing him. Cullen grins, his mouth pulling lopsided, and takes the tip of the glove in between his teeth. Carefully he pulls it off, grasps it in his hand, uses the other to hold hers. Cullen looks at her, keeps her adoring brown gaze captive, and nuzzles her hand, pressing his lips to her finger, in the place where a ring would be.

Aeveth shivers.

“We should go back,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” she agrees faintly. “Can I join you tonight?”

He kisses the inside of her wrist, lingering, her pulse fluttering under his lips. “Always.”

They walk back to camp, and Cullen holds her hand the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more to go, I think... let me know your thoughts.


	21. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers,
> 
> Thank you yet again for coming with me on this journey. This tale began as a one-shot, much like the other, and grew ferociously, grew in leaps and bounds, to become this thing. This work, over which I've agonized; this work, over which I've lost sleep and cussed at liberally; this work, over which many a discussion has been had with friends who are way more patient with me than I deserve.
> 
> I want to thank my husband for his unfailing support; I want to thank Aisha and Dee for putting up with me; I want to thank my steady readers, especially Claude, Batty, missfronkensteen, and Zan for their eternal enthusiasm even when the fic stopped being lighthearted. I want to thank all of you, because without you this story would never have happened, would never have grown into this novel-length tale that I am proud to say I wrote.
> 
> Thank you, everyone. I love you all, and don't forget to leave some comments for me!

Aeveth is having nightmares again, so Cullen decides to put off giving her his gift.

It’s sitting by the sofa in their quarters, just a long rectangular package wrapped in plain butcher paper. Even the address label is nondescript, a simple _deliver to Commander Cullen_ written upon it in thick, black block letters. It sits there, and when Cullen passes it he almost grabs it and just gives it to her. It’s special, though. He wants to wait for the right moment to surprise her; first thing in the morning will do.

But every morning it’s the same: Aeveth thrashes herself awake, starts, flailing, with a moan or a cry, and Cullen will grab her hand, or put a hand on her shoulder, and speak calmly to her, before her power breaks the Veil and fire and lightning vomit forth. He centers her, brings her back down, and when the confusion clears from her eyes she’ll fall back onto the bed, her breaths rasping in her throat, and curl into a fetal position.

Cullen waits, knowing that in her dreams she sees the point of her dagger driving into an eye, feels the gelatinous resistance followed by the squish of brain and the rattle of the blade as it scrapes through the eye socket, flinches when the blood sprays, splattering her hand, her arm, her face, hot copper drops landing on her tongue.

Cullen waits, because taking care of her right now is so much more important than the thing in the box.

Her dreams do not abate after a week or two, or even three. Their new ritual settles onto them uneasily, prickling, and Cullen quickly becomes familiar with how strong Aeveth wants her tea, how desperate she is to stay awake. He has to coax her to bed and somehow keep her there, and when he dozes off before she does, exhausted, he knows she’ll slip out from under the covers and go sit in the chair by the fireplace.

The solution hits him one day, and Cullen almost smacks himself in the face with how obvious it is. He has always maintained that her sanctuary is hers; despite that, she - they - have not been back since her admission over the magebane. He’ll just have to get over it, he tells himself, because Aeveth is fading fast, the hollows under her eyes deepening with each day that passes, with each third-watch wake-up.

Cullen packs his saddlebags, convinces Aeveth to ride double with him, holds her steady when she falls asleep on the ride, her head lolling against his chest as he eases his stallion into a walk. He wakes her gently when they arrive; she blinks groggily, dazed, sliding off the saddle into Cullen’s waiting arms.

“Where…?” she says, rubbing her eyes blearily. “Oh!” Aeveth gasps, looks around at the long grass with its scraggly, tall weeds, the snarls of crystal grace growing wild, the hammock, ties twisted, hanging forlornly from its tree. She breaks into a run, drops to her knees when she reaches the first clump of overgrown brush. Her hands cup a flower tenderly; she leans her face down, inhales. “There’s a lot of work to do.”

In the next ten minutes Aeveth is more like herself than she has been in a month. Cullen unravels the hammock, sets it to rights, then sits and watches her work with the satisfaction of knowing he has done for her what no one else could.

Aeveth is so tired that night that she falls into bed still dirt-streaked and sweaty, and doesn’t wake until late afternoon of the next day.

Still, the package sits.

When she’s well again, Cullen tells himself. A week passes, and Aeveth seems to have broken the grip of her nightmares, returns to eating three square meals a day. Two weeks pass, and she stops looking so worn, is able to stand at War Table meetings instead of sit. Three weeks, and their mornings begin again with whispers and smiles, hot breaths, the thump of bodies against the feather bed.

Cullen comes up the stairs two months after receiving the package to find that it’s gone. It takes him a moment to realize it isn’t in its customary place; it’s been there for so long his eyes just pass right over it. “Aeveth?” he calls out, pulling his coat off, dropping it on the sofa. There are pieces of torn brown paper littering the rugs.

“Cullen!”

A loud rustle; the slap of feet; Aeveth hurtles out of the washroom in only her smalls, her arms clutching something long and white and sparkling that trails behind her as she runs. _“Cullen!”_ she cries again, and throws herself so hard into his arms that he stumbles and almost falls over. Her eyes are shining as she kisses him on each cheek, on his nose, his forehead, anywhere her lips can reach. She laughs delightedly, giddily even, and shakes out the cloth she’s holding.

It’s a dress, long and white, made of the same gauzy, translucent, diaphanous material as her Winter Palace gown. Instead of gold embroidery it has silver, and the shoulders are not pauldrons but lace cap sleeves sewn with hundreds of clear, sparkling crystals. Aeveth stands up straight then, matches the dress up to her body, and says, “Well?”

It doesn’t take any stretch of the imagination to know that she is going to look stunning in the bridal dress. “Ah,” Cullen says, his mouth suddenly dry. “It’s - you’re going to -” He can’t finish; his throat seems to have closed up with something.

“This is Thierry’s work, isn’t it?” Aeveth asks him. She doesn’t wait for an answer before she continues. “How much did you have to grovel to get him to do this? Cullen, I’m - it’s beautiful, it’s perfect. I love you so much.”

Very seriously, he says, “I had to do an obscene amount of groveling.”

Aeveth giggles, then grabs his hand. “Help me put it on?”

Cullen nods, taking the dress from her, turning it around, looking at the back. “Oh _Maker,”_ he says then, incredulous. “Shit.”

“What? What is it?” Aeveth’s eyes are large with concern.

He shows her. Instead of hooks and eyes, the dress has laces.

Aeveth throws her head back, practically screaming with laughter.

Their attempts to get the dress on last only a few minutes before they move their activities to the bed. There, amidst their smiles, Cullen can let his palms slide down the expanses of Aeveth’s dusky golden skin, traversing the curves of her marvelous figure with a singular expertise. There, he can move her bodily with his mouth, get her to grip his hair as she moans through tremors and shakes, make his name fall from her lips in a litany he wants to hear over and over, forever.

Rays of sunshine move across the room, deepen from yellow to gold to red. Cullen and Aeveth fall asleep, happy and content, arms and legs intertwined, bodies pressed together.

The dress sits, abandoned, a poof of glittering white upon the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.


End file.
